


By a Thread

by fayedartmouth



Category: CHAOS (TV 2011)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayedartmouth/pseuds/fayedartmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An injury robs Billy of his voice – and a whole lot more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.
> 
> A/N: Beta given by postfallen. This is a four-part fic, and I’ll post Thursdays and Mondays until it’s through :)

Billy didn’t see it coming.

One minute, he was getting out of his car. The next, something clubbed him in the head and everything went dark.

He came to, briefly, and found himself being dragged roughly across the ground, voices in Spanish skipping over his consciousness. He blinked a few times and when someone looked down, their eyes locked and something came down hard on his head again.

This time, when he woke, he was face down, face pressed against the concrete. Someone was tying his hands roughly. When they saw he was awake, they jerked his arms harder, almost dislodging them from their sockets, and spit in his face.

“ _Traidor,_ ” the man hissed at him before straightening, using his foot to kick Billy roughly at the back of the head.

It hurt, but this time he didn’t pass out, and in the precarious seconds that followed Billy realized what had happened.

He’d been found out, obviously. Perhaps not as CIA -- his Scottish descent made it easy for him to hide that fact -- but as a traitor nonetheless. The team was on a mission to Ecuador, trying to get established in a drug cartel that had recently taken two American contractors hostage. They’d already rescued the men, but when they’d found out that the latest shipment was being slated as a set up to start buying weapons they’d decided to knock the operation down a peg.

Apparently, their plans had been a bit ambitious since Billy had been accosted and taken captive.

Before he had time to think this through any further, he was hauled roughly to his knees and the leader -- an unpleasant man called Castillo -- stood in front of him, his machine guns prominently displayed. “You lied to me, friend.”

Billy smiled as best he could, even with the aching pain in the back of his head. “You’re right,” he agreed. “When I said it was a pleasure to be in your company, that was more than a slight exaggeration--”

His glib remark was cut off by a quick punch across his face. He could taste blood in his mouth, and stars danced across his vision even as he was forcibly kept on his knees.

Blinking, Billy worked to clear his vision, spitting blood on the ground. “A good assessment, then,” he muttered.

“I do not know who you work for,” Castillo said. “I do not care.”

Pissing bad guys off was one thing. Earning their total indifference was entirely another. When bad men got angry they got violent, which often gave Billy a fighting chance. If Castillo wanted revenge, Billy would have a means with which to stall.

Indifference meant that there would be no drawn out process. Chances were he’d execute Billy and just be done with it.

Throat tight, Billy’s heart skipped a beat. Indifference was bad. The good news was that Billy was an expert at talking his way out of things. A few words could turn the tide in his favor. He could win countless friends with his golden tongue.

More than that, he could earn countless enemies with a few taunting phrases.

Billy snorted. “Well, you should,” he said. “Because you’d be stupid not to. I’m not alone, you know.”

It was bad form to out himself, though in his defense, he’d said nothing of the CIA. This mission wasn’t sanctioned; if he died, the mission died with him. If he could stall long enough, if he could give his team time to find him, then they could still recover something to go home with.

Namely, his life.

Billy straightened, chin lifted defiantly. “And they’ll be after you sooner than you think,” he said. “We know a lot about you, and trust me when I say we are not people you want on your tail.”

Castillo shrugged. “This is why killing you is the best solution.”

Billy scoffed. “Except that my absence will just bring the hounds faster! Even now, if I’ve missed a check in, they’ll be on you.”

The thing was, it was mostly true. The ODS would be after him the moment he’d been knocked out. He had a strict check in schedule, and when he didn’t arrive at his intended destination the ODS would activate the tracker hidden in his watch and be here in no time.

Well, soon at any rate.

Billy just needed to stall.

A few more words.

“I may be able to hold them off, though,” Billy bargained. “We can maybe cut a deal.”

Castillo smiled. “You think I would do that?”

Billy grinned. “I think you are a smart man,” he said, nodding intently. “A clever leader. You know when someone is offering you a deal.”

“And when they are wasting my time,” Castillo said, nodding at someone behind Billy.

There was movement, and Billy tensed. “Come on, now,” he said, his heart rate picking up. “You shouldn’t do anything hasty--”

Castillo gave an order in Spanish, nodding. Billy was hauled to his feet, and he struggled in vain.

“You’ll regret anything rash when they come to find me,” Billy said. 

“No, I do not think I will,” Castillo said with a sanguine smile. “And have no fear. You will not either.”

Billy did his best to retain his composure. “Yeah? How do you figure?”

“Because you will be dead,” Castillo said simply.

And just like that, he was yanked backward. He almost tripped, but the guards dragged him so his feet stumbled and tripped over each other before standing him upright and maneuvering something around his neck. Something thick and coarse and--

A noose, Billy realized.

His eyes widened, his mouth opened to plead, to beg, to stall.

There was no time, though, not as the noose tightened suddenly and he was jerked off his feet. He swayed violently, flailing as best he could with his hands secured, the pain in his neck radiating through his body, almost blinding him.

He was hauled higher, the pain threatened to take his consciousness. He hung on doggedly, trying to breathe--

Then he realized he couldn’t.

-o-

Michael had known the instant things went south.

This mission was dangerous. More than that, it was unsanctioned. He didn’t mind taking his team off the radar when the situation demanded it, but he was keenly aware of his lack of backup. Taking Castillo out of the game had been a necessary risk -- they’d all agreed.

But still a risk.

A big one.

They’d managed to get the captives free, but only by separating Castillo from his guards and mounting a rescue by the cover of night. They’d been in and out before Castillo had even been roused out of his bed to report the breach.

And really, the fact that they’d staged that coup had probably only heightened the man’s sense of paranoia. Michael could appreciate that, of course. Paranoia was an asset for people who wanted to stay alive in a complicated world. Taking Castillo's hostages had only made the man edgier than ever, making him more skeptical of everyone.

Michael had counted on this, but since Billy’s cover had been established prior to the rescue, Michael had thought that it was less likely Billy would be a suspect if he showed up again like nothing had happened.

And it had seemed to work. Billy made inroads on a possible gun deal, and Castillo was dangerously close to setting himself up.

Then Billy had been taken.

Right there, in the street. One second he’d been getting out of his car, the next he’d been knocked out and dragged into a van by two men. It had taken no more than ten seconds, and Michael found himself running desperately after the van, radioing Casey to double time it down the street in their car.

Rick met him at the corner, and they’d piled into the car when Casey paused just enough. They’d almost lost the son of a bitch once, but by staying back and keeping to the alleys, they’d been able to follow the van until it stopped.

At Castillo’s warehouse.

They had had to park far enough back to avoid detection, but they could only assume that Castillo abducting Billy off the street was a bad sign.

Rick glanced down at the computer console. “It says he’s in there still,” he reported, looking at the blip of Billy’s tracker.

“Yeah, and he’s not moving,” Casey observed curtly. He looked up at Michael. “He’s been compromised.”

Michael knew that, but he couldn’t be sure how bad.

“But we could compromise the mission even more if we barge in,” Rick said. “We don’t even know how heavily armed Castillo is right now.”

Michael knew that, too. He’d been thinking it since they’d pulled up.

“So, what, we want to take the chance of doing nothing?” Casey snapped. “Castillo will kill Billy.”

“But Billy can stall, can’t he?” Rick asked, trying to sound confident, but in truth, he just sounded young.

Both valid points, and his teammates looked at him for confirmation.

Because this was Michael’s choice. It’d been his choice to keep going on the mission; it’d been his choice to use Billy’s cover. It’d been his choice, and now Billy was compromised and the whole thing could end very, very badly.

“We kill two birds with one stone,” Michael said. “We go in, rescue Billy and take Castillo down in the process. We won’t get as good of charges, but he still has outstanding warrants that will take him out of the game.”

Rick swallowed, clearly nervous.

Casey was stoic.

Michael took a breath, solidifying his resolve. “It’s a plan that can work,” he said. “With our firepower and Billy’s stalling tactics, this might all still turn out alright.”

-o-

A hanging.

Billy had to give Castillo credit, it was a creative means. A bit slower, but a mite less messy, and very dramatic. Billy had considered many possible methods of execution, but never _this._

Dangling on the end of the rope, trying to breathe, trying to--

And failing.

That was the point, he knew, but the sudden shock of it was still overwhelming. His eyes popped open and he looked about, finding himself swinging wildly as his legs kicked in futility. The men on the ground were watching him; Castillo was already walking away.

And there was nothing left to say. There was really nothing left to do.

Billy’s eyes watered, his face turning hot even as the rest of his body went horribly numb. It was hard to say what was worse -- the pressing need for air or the encompassing _pain._

Ultimately, it didn’t matter. The more he kicked, the tighter the noose got, and his vision started to gray out, everything going unpleasantly dim as the world exploded around him.

-o-

The minute they got in range, Michael knew something was wrong.

Mostly because nothing seemed out of place. The guards were calm, and there was Castillo, walking out the front door, as easy as he pleased.

“Maybe we were wrong,” Rick whispered from their cover behind a row of brush. “Maybe Billy hasn’t been found out...”

“Or maybe he’s already dead,” Casey said, voice low and tense, his posture so stiff that he seemed ready to snap.

“We go in hot,” Michael said, unable to accept either option. “Our goal is to subdue, but we need to get inside quickly, so it’s no holds barred.”

He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.

Some missions took meticulous planning.

Some were intuitive.

The approach was easier than Michael might have suspected. The first guards went down without a sound, and the next set weren’t much harder. They fanned out, working methodically, but when they reached the main building Castillo appeared ready for a standoff.

Normally, Michael might humor him to try to control the loss of life. Especially if Billy was in play.

But the fact that Billy was nowhere to be seen did not bode well. If Castillo was keeping Billy as a card to play, he wouldn’t have hidden him.

This meant they had nothing to lose.

Michael glanced across the grounds, nodding to Casey, who was hiding behind a truck. Casey nodded back.

Then, Michael turned to Rick, who was pressed up against him behind a series of crates. “When the gunfire starts, we go in,” he said.

Rick’s eyes were bright and wide. “Okay,” he said.

“You look for Billy,” Michael ordered. “Let Casey and me worry about the rest. You look for Billy.”

Rick nodded.

Then there was a movement and the gunfire started, Casey streaking through the yard with unrestrained rage. He yelled, deep and guttural, and it was the only cue Michael needed.

“Go,” he shouted, pushing Martinez to his feet and shoving him forward.

Rick stumbled once, but broke into a run, and Michael followed close behind, firing as he went, clearing a straight path toward the door.

There was no stealth; no hesitation. The men were falling around them and Castillo stepped out, gun raised.

Michael raised his back as Rick came to a halt between them.

There could have been a standoff, an exchange of words.

But Castillo wasn’t the type. Instead he leveled his gun, finger on the trigger--

And Michael fired.

Castillo fell with a yelp, writhing on the ground. 

Michael caught up with Martinez. “What did I tell you,” he said. “Billy--”

He cut off, and followed Rick’s line of vision. The door behind Castillo was wide open, and it was easy to see the scene before them. Casey had been busy, and there were bodies strewn about even as a firefight ensued toward the back of the building.

But that wasn’t what Rick was looking at.

No, he was looking up toward the rafters.

Toward the spot where Billy was hanging by his neck from a rope, feet dangling uselessly off the ground.

-o-

Then, the pressure was gone.

Billy blinked and realized he was on his back. Somehow his hands were free and he was staring up at the rafters. Michael was there, and Rick. Casey hovered behind them.

He was down. Billy realized that with sudden, swelling relief. He was _down._ And he was _alive._

It was a relief so palpable, he could have damn near cried.

He opened his mouth, to breathe, to say thank you, but nothing came out.

Working his throat, he tried to swallow, and fresh pain ignited. It lit through him, faster than before and more intense. It racked his body and he found himself trembling at the onslaught, eyes widening in horror.

Because he was down, but it didn’t matter. He still couldn’t breathe. Still couldn’t move. Still couldn’t do anything.

He tried, though. With all he had.

The pain only escalated, and he couldn’t help it when hot tears stung his eyes. The sheer tenacity of the sensation shook him, and he tried to cry out, but that just made it hurt worse.

Desperate, he inhaled, trying to get his bearings. He just needed to breathe -- just a tick--

But there was only pain.

Not just pain -- because Billy was used to pain. This was wrenching agony, worse than anything he’d felt before. It was like his throat had been torn out, like there was nothing but a gaping hole--

Billy shuddered, almost panicking now, his mouth open as he labored uselessly. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They’d come for him, they’d got him down. He was supposed to be okay. He was supposed to take a few gulping breaths, make a quip and move on.

But there was no air. There were no words. There was _pain._ He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, to get away, but the darkness scared him, threatened to consume him and he stared out instead, looking at his friends, trying to get his words to work, to not fail him now.

Rick was pale, Casey frozen. Michael was next to him, hand grasping his arm and face close, eyes boring into his, mouth moving but Billy couldn’t quite make out the words.

Billy tried to wet his lips, tried to explain. They needed to know. They needed to understand. He needed to tell them, he needed to...

Breathe.

He needed to...

Breathe...

He convulsed, desperation setting in as his lips moved and his consciousness abated, the fire in his throat mounting until there was nothing left.

No words. No air.  
 _  
Nothing.  
_  
-o-

For a second, Michael wasn’t able to move. He stood there, paralyzed, just watching, trying to make sense of the surreal, morbid tableau.

Because Billy was...

Hell, they’d _hanged_ Billy. Michael had always planned for worst case scenarios, but he’d never exactly planned for...  
 _  
This.  
_  
Billy, noose around his neck, face suffused with red and legs limp as they hovered off the ground.

Billy, _dead._

Not dead, Michael told himself, forcing the truth over his consciousness ruthlessly. He wasn’t dead. Not until they had him down, until they’d felt for a heartbeat, listened for breath...

Billy wasn’t dead.

But only if Michael moved.

Rick was still staring, gaping and pale. Jostling the younger operative, Michael broke into a run. “Come on!”

When Michael glanced back, Rick was still standing there, looking at Michael now, shocked.

“If we’re going to have a chance at saving him, I need your help,” Michael said, trying to make it sound like an order. It felt like a plea. “Now, Martinez. Let’s go.”

Michael couldn’t afford to look back any longer. When he got close enough to Billy he scrabbled for the closest box he could find, dragging it over haphazardly and stepping up, drawing Billy’s limp form closer to him and hefting him up.

Hanging was usually death by strangulation. If Billy was going to have a chance, Michael needed to restore the airway.

He refused to think about the other way hanging killed. About how it snapped necks, killing victims instantly. How no amount of timely intervention would make a difference.

That wasn’t what had happened.

Blinking furiously, Michael turned, looking around Billy’s legs as best he could back toward Rick.

“Martinez, _now,_ ” he yelled, voice thick with the emotions he refused to acknowledge. “Get your damn knife and get over here to cut him down.”

Rick seemed to stammer.

“If he dies, so help me God, Martinez,” Michael said, almost choking on the words now. Billy’s body turned listlessly above him. “I’ll blame you if you don’t get your damn ass over here.”

Martinez blinked, and seemed to remember himself. Seemed to remember how to move.

It only took a few more seconds before Rick was next to him. He stood at Billy’s side, flailing for a moment, before he managed to find a table. The wooden legs scratched hard against the floor as Rick dragged it over, and the kid nearly tripped climbing on top of it. He withdrew his knife, fingers shaking so bad that Michael worried the kid might cut his own fingers off by accident.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Rick reached up, face going stony and still as he stood on his tiptoes, reaching up high on the rope above Billy’s head, grasping it with one hand and sawing with the other.

Michael could hear the fibers plucking, and it only took a moment before Billy’s body shifted, sagging a little. The unexpected weight almost threw Michael’s balance, but he kept his footing, staggering just a little as he reached up further, trying to brace Billy’s chest as the rope continued to fray.

It took time -- precious seconds, horrible seconds, seconds Billy might not have -- but when the rope finally gave, it was all Michael could do to catch Billy, the sudden load knocking Michael off his feet, and he crashed unceremoniously to the ground.

He hit hard, jarring his elbow and knocking his head, the air rushing out of his lungs with force. Everything went white for a moment, and when he finally focused, Rick was already there, pulling Billy free.

The younger operative laid Billy on his side, working steadily at the bindings on his wrists. Michael scooted his way around to the front, ignoring the pain in his elbow and back, using his numb fingers to pull at the noose, loosening it as best he could.

The flesh was swollen underneath, an angry red and purple line burned deep into the skin of Billy’s neck. Gritting his teeth, Michael slipping the noose up and over, trying not to look at the mottled features of Billy’s face.

When Rick was done with the bindings, they laid Billy hastily on his back and Martinez squatted behind Michael, eyes as wide as saucers. “Is he--?”

Michael didn’t know. God help him, he didn’t know. It was Michael’s job to know the details, to know the big picture, to know _everything,_ but he didn’t know if Billy was alive...

There was a noise, but Michael didn’t look up. Rick flinched, lifting his knife, but Casey skidded into view. “I did my best to hurry...”

He didn’t finish.

Instead, he fell silent, watching as Michael reached down with one hand, pressing his fingers into the side of Billy’s bruised and distended neck, hoping...

And Billy’s eyes opened.

The sudden start was surprising -- so much so that Michael nearly fell back into Rick, who nearly crashed into Casey. Billy sprung back to life with an unexpected vigor, his entire body tensing and flailing, eyes wide and searching.

Before landing on Michael. And Rick and Casey.

Michael stared.

And then he nearly laughed. Damn near cried. Because Billy wasn’t dead, Billy was okay.

But then Billy’s eyes widened even further. He started to tremble, his expression going from surprise to fear to horror to...

Pain.

Not just pain, because Michael had seen Billy in pain. This was more than that. This was agony.

Billy’s mouth opened, and Michael leaned closer. “Billy? Hey, Billy,” he said, hand tentatively grasping the Scot’s shoulder. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

That should have been the easy part. Usually, Michael couldn’t get the Scot to shut up. Usually, Billy prattled on endlessly. Usually.

This time, Billy’s mouth moved--

Nothing came out.

Billy seemed to convulse, pressing his lips together for a long moment before he opened his mouth again--

Still nothing.

Billy’s face was paling rapidly now, going from red to pink to ashen within seconds.

Michael felt his stomach churn, his fingers tightening on Billy’s shoulder. “Billy?”

Billy shuddered violently, legs starting to kick restlessly. His back arched, his mouth gaping like a fish out of water. Tears started streaking down his face, fingers balled up into fist as he nearly started to seize in earnest.

It didn’t make sense. They’d cut Billy down. Billy was still alive. Billy was conscious...

Then, Michael remembered.

Sometimes it wasn’t a lack of oxygen.

Sometimes it was damage to the neck. And not just a clean, easy break. Sometimes it was a deviated windpipe, compressed arteries, damaged veins. 

They had cut Billy down--

But he was still dying all the same.

Slowly, painfully, starving for oxygen but this time with no rope to cut.

Nothing to do except watch.

“What’s happening?” Rick asked, sounding small, young.

Michael’s own breath caught as Billy’s lips went blue, his struggles fading as his legs stopped kicking, his fists unfurling, fingers scraping limply against the cement as his shoulders fell and his eyes started to droop.

“He’s dying,” Michael replied, the words heavy on his tongue. “The rope must have damaged his throat...”

And there was nothing he could do. He wasn’t a doctor; he had limited medical experience. He could plan and plot and he was still powerless.

“He’ll only die if we don’t do anything,” Casey growled, voice deep and almost guttural. He shoved past Rick and nearly knocked Michael out of the way.

Rick yelped, and Michael steadied himself, refusing to be deterred. He looked at Malick critically, even as Casey pulled out his knife.

“You sure about this?” Michael asked.

Casey’s eyes were on Billy, even as he pulled out his flask, pouring its contents over the blade. “We’re miles from medical help; there is no backup or extraction,” he said curtly. He turned his eyes to Michael, and they were red and wild. Desperate. “I don’t see any other choice.”

Rick had found his footing. “Any other choice about what?”

Michael’s jaw was tight. “You do this wrong...”

“What?” Casey asked, dabbing the blade dry. “I’ll desecrate his body? Billy’s already as good as dead.”

It was true. Michael’s eyes went down, settling on Billy. His face was blue now, lips almost purple. They were out of time. It could already be too late--

“Guys,” Rick interjected more forcefully now. “I don’t--”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Because Casey had leaned over Billy’s prone form, tilting his head back. He gauged the area, pouring on more alcohol over Billy’s exposed and distended throat.

Then he positioned the knife and cut.

Behind them, Rick gasped audibly. Michael’s stomach threatened to turn itself out, but he swallowed it back unforgivingly. Blood welled up from the incision, but Casey didn’t hesitate. Face blank, he pulled the skin apart, squinting as he dug the blade deeper.

“You have something to keep this open?” Casey asked, dipping the blade just so.

Michael fumbled, patting down his pockets. Behind him, Rick wavered. “Something to keep it open?” he repeated, a little feebly.

“A pen, a straw, tubing -- anything,” Casey snarled, keeping the knife in place.

Michael felt his phone and his wallet and--

“But I don’t understand,” Rick said.

“What’s not to understand?” Casey snapped, looking up with bright eyes. “I just cut a hole in Billy’s neck. Unless we get a tube in there to keep it open, then I’ve just cut up our teammate for my own damn satisfaction. So get me a damn tube.”

Then, Michael found it. “Got it,” he said, pulling out a pen. He bit the end hard, pulling it apart with his teeth and spitting the end away. Then he tapped it, pulling the tube out. Without waiting, he blew through it, clearing it out as best he could before snatching Casey’s discarded flask and cleaning it quickly. It wasn’t perfect -- and Michael knew the risks of infection -- but at this point, the risk was worth it.

Because Billy was lifeless. Billy was dead.

Without this, Billy was dead.

Resolved, Michael handed Casey the tube and the older operative took it without comment. His face was pinched now as he worked his fingers deftly, slipping the tube in right as he removed the knife. The skin closed around it, fresh blood still streaming out.

Michael stared as Casey held the tube in place. He stared at Billy’s unmoving features, his still chest. Behind him, Rick was retching. But Billy didn’t flinch; didn’t flicker.

Michael’s chest constricted. Casey locked his jaw. “Come on, damn it,” he muttered. “Come on, come on...”

But Billy didn’t move. 

All this, and it might be too late.

It might be...

Michael shook his head, face scrunching up in desperation. He leaned down, pressing his ear to Billy’s chest. It was hard to hear -- the sound of his own heart so frantic -- but there it was. A distant thump. Then another.

Michael nearly sobbed, but he didn’t have that luxury. Billy didn’t have that luxury.

Instead, he sat up, moving closer toward Billy’s head. Mindful of Casey’s position, red-stained fingers holding the tube in place, Michael leaned down. He didn’t explain -- there wasn’t time -- and he didn’t have to. Casey kept steady and Michael blew through the tube.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Billy’s chest rise. 

He breathed again, and the result was the same.

That meant there was hope. The tracheotomy had worked -- Casey had successfully cut into Billy’s windpipe and with the tube, they still had access to Billy’s lungs.

Billy could survive.

The sudden spring of hope was overwhelming, and Michael felt a giddy surge of adrenaline, even as he breathed twice more. He paused, watching; and when nothing happened, he tried again.

Because Billy’s heart was beating. Billy still had an airway. Billy wasn’t hanging by his neck. Billy was alive. He could come back from this.

They could _all_ come back from this.

Rick was there again, hovering just above Michael’s shoulder. Casey was taut. Billy’s slack face didn’t flicker.

Michael ignored it all and breathed again, willing Billy’s lungs to respond.

Another breath.

Another moment.

Another hope.

This time, when Michael waited, there was a slight movement. Billy’s chest expanded and fell.

Michael froze, almost terrified to believe.

But then, Billy’s chest rose again.

Michael sat back on his heels, exhaling with a laugh and a sob. He took a moment -- just a single, tenuous moment -- to compose himself. 

Because this wasn’t over.

There was Castillo and his warehouse, his men and his operation. There was Billy with a crushed neck, miles from help.

This was a long ways from over.

But Michael found his certainty again. He could do this.

He _would._

Because there was simply no other option.

-o-

Billy was suspended.

He couldn’t feel the noose -- its coarse fibers digging into his skin -- but the pain was still there, constricting his neck and squeezing his airway, even as he dangled just below full awareness. He wanted to kick, to flail, to get away, but it was a useless endeavor.

Suspended. Between consciousness and dark, between life and death. Like a dying man on the end of a string, helpless and defeated.

And for the first time in Billy’s life, he seriously considered death as the better option.

Because everything _hurt._ The noose had stolen his breath and then wrested away his self control. It took his words and left him vulnerable and worthless; it stole _everything._ He was at the mercies of fate, be they cruel or kind.

It was no choice, therefore, when someone opened his eyes and blinded him. Once, twice. Then the other eye. And consciousness came crashing over him, jerking him back with an unexpected force.

He blinked, trying to make sense of it. The warehouse was gone; Michael and Rick and Casey were gone. There were people, gloved and masked and--

Hospital, Billy realized. He’d made it to a hospital.

The sudden revelation should have been reassuring. Most people hanged from the ceiling by angry criminals didn’t live to tell the story. There should have been satisfaction in that, that Castillo hadn’t won, that he’d underestimated them all.

There was talking all around him, but not at him. Someone fingered his neck and he opened his mouth to gasp--

But nothing happened.

Something was wrong.

Everything was wrong.

He was breathing but he wasn’t. He was awake but couldn’t move. He was trapped; caught; hanging by a thread.

Desperate, he tried to flail, bucking meagerly with all the strength he had left.

It wasn’t enough.

Eyes watering, he tried to make eye contact, still squirming when someone finally clamped down on his arm, leaning close, her eyes locked with his.

“Tranquilizate,” she said, voice muffled through the mask. “Te ayudamos.”

Billy knew Spanish, but couldn’t think up the translation. Couldn’t think of anything.

He needed to explain. What, he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. He just needed to ask. He needed to speak. Words were his ally, his only comfort when things went wrong. They were his strength, his certainty, his only weapon when all else failed.

He took a shuddering breath, trembling in earnest as he wet his lips--

But nothing happened. There were no words.

There was nothing.

Panicked, Billy tried to swallow and nearly choked. He convulsed, a fresh terror spreading through him. This was wrong. This was very, very wrong. He’d been hanged and his friends weren’t here and he was alive but he didn’t know how.

He didn’t know _anything._

The voices picked up, something warm radiated up his arm. He tried to hold on, to fight back, but it was too much.

He’d been wrong before. Maybe Castillo had won. Maybe he’d choked Billy to death.

Or maybe Billy had done it all on his own.

Either way, Billy had no choice but to give up the fight once again.

-o-

To say Michael was tired would be something of an understatement.

Michael was more exhausted. More than that, he was simply spent. It had taken every ounce of energy and control he had to get them this far, and now that they were here, in the hospital, his adrenaline was crashing and he was starting to face the real nature of their situation.

That Billy had been hanged.

His cover had been blown; he’d been snatched off the street, and strung up to die.

He nearly had died, too. If not for Casey’s quick thinking...

Michael shuddered, dropping his head into his trembling hands. They’d cut Billy down; they’d put in a temporary airway. They’d got him breathing and loaded him up, driving all the way back to town. Michael had been at the wheel, of course, because that was the only place he could think to be. But he’d watched the rearview mirror more than anything, turning it down so he could see Rick holding the thin tube in place, bracing himself against the seat with staunch features while Casey held Billy down, keeping one hand wrapped around Billy’s wrist to feel for his heartbeat.

And Billy didn’t move. He lay on the seat, legs folded at funny angles on the bench. One long arm was draped over his stomach while the other was lax over the edge of the seat, bouncing as Michael hit a rut in the road. His face was pale, lips still slightly blue, complexion even more ashen by the stark blood that stained his neck.

Needless to say, it had been a long drive. Maybe the longest of Michael’s life.

They’d made it, though. They’d got to the hospital, turned Billy over to the doctors and found themselves in a waiting room with nothing but outdated magazines in Spanish.

So Michael waited.

The most exhausting, soul-sucking waiting of his life. Every moment punctuated by the doubts -- what if he’d been faster, what if he’d pulled Billy out earlier, what if he’d gone home with the mission was actually over -- and laden with the responsibility. And haunted by that image of Billy, body limp, hanging from a rope...

Michael lifted his head, looking bleakly around the waiting room again, trying to take a breath. It hurt, but the air moved in and out. It was easy to take it for granted, except he could still remember how Billy had struggled, how nothing but part of a pen had kept Billy alive.

Pressing his lips together, Michael looked over at his other teammates. Rick looked wrecked, face still unnaturally pale as he sat listlessly in the chair next to Michael. He was staring at the wall and had done nothing more than blink since they’d got here. He looked younger than normal -- too young, really -- and Michael felt guilt churn in his gut for putting the kid in this position. Rick had been frozen when they’d found Billy, and Michael had done what was necessary to save Billy’s life, but he knew the burden of that initial inaction would be hard for an operative like Martinez to shake. He prided himself on his instincts, and in the face of losing one of his teammates the kid had been paralyzed. It was human and understandable, but Rick was too new to understand that and Michael was too weary to explain.

On his other side, Casey was expressionless, but his jaw was tight. He had not spoken since taking control back at the warehouse, and when the doctors had asked who had completed the emergency tracheotomy, he’d acknowledged his work and dared someone to question or criticize him. No one would, though. Casey had saved Billy’s life. To most people, Casey was remarkably unchanged by such a remarkable feat, but Michael could see the telltale signs of stress in Casey’s disposition. The tension in his shoulders, the rigidity of his posture. The almost inaudible hum pushed out through his nose.

He could call Langley. Hell, he probably should, but he’d been avoiding that since they went off the book last week. Still, no matter what unsanctioned work they’d done, Fay would help them sort it out with Higgins. Adele would run interference. Even Higgins, as much as he resented them, wouldn’t leave them hanging...

Michael winced at the choice of words. He suppressed the urge to shudder again and when he reached up his hand to run it through his hair, he was keenly aware of how badly he was trembling.

He dropped his hands, blowing out a breath. The silence was killing him -- no, the silence had almost killed Billy. He could still see Billy’s eyes bugging wide, his mouth open, but no words, no air moving--

He took another breath and straightened, glancing toward Martinez. “You okay, kid?” he asked.

It was a stupid question, but it was all Michael could do to keep the tremor out of his voice.

Rick seemed to flinch, blinking a few times as he turned his head toward Michael in surprise. “What?”

Michael persisted, mostly because it was too late to back out now. “You doing okay?” he asked again, a bit more gently now.

Rick took a stuttering breath, swallowing with effort. “I – think so,” he said. Then he shook his head. “No.”

Michael offered him a meager half smile. “Billy’ll be okay,” he said. “He’s been through worse.”

At that, Rick stared. “Really?” he asked, plain and disbelieving. “He’s been through _worse_?”

The kid had a point, but Michael wasn’t about to let the kid know that. Not just out of principle, but because the last thing Martinez needed was the truth at this point. “Maybe,” he said, shrugging a little. “We got there in time.”

He tried to sound convincing, but the lingering image of Billy with the noose around his neck...

Michael shook his head, glancing toward Casey. “And I’m impressed, Malick,” he said. “You’ve upped your game as a field medic.”

Casey scoffed, giving Michael a bitter look. “It’s basic anatomy,” he said. “And it’s really sort of the reverse of some imperative self defense techniques. Crushing the windpipe is just the reverse of salvaging it.”

It took effort to keep smiling. “Well, all the same,” he said, rallying his self control. “You were like a pro out there. Where have you practiced that?”

Casey’s face went tight again, and he seemed to pull into himself a bit. “I haven’t,” he said. “I happened to watch part of a MASH marathon last weekend, which, by the way, is one of the only television programs worth watching from the last fifty years. I figured if they talked nonprofessionals through it there, I could do it with my heightened fortitude and stability.”

Michael didn’t know whether to laugh or yell. Instead, he stared.

Behind him, Rick laughed, incredulous. “You cut into Billy’s through after watching an episode of MASH?”

“They were very thorough in their descriptions,” Casey defended.

“It’s a TV show,” Rick hissed.

“And it worked,” Casey shot back.

Rick flailed out an arm. “You could have killed him!”

“Oh, and you had a better plan?” Casey said sharply. “Standing there and doing nothing while Billy suffocated in total agony was so much better.”

Michael felt Rick start to spring and reached out his hand, clamping it down on the other man’s forearm. He looked at Casey, staring him down. Across the waiting room, the other people were watching them now and a nurse had stopped, eyeing them curiously.

Michael inhaled slowly, not releasing Rick’s arm or deviating his gaze. “We all did what we could,” he said, voice taut and low. “That’s as much as we can ask for.”

Casey didn’t speak, but the intensity of his gaze said enough. Rick’s fist clenched, but his posture eased.

Letting go of Rick’s wrist, he eased back a little. “We made it this far,” he said. “By working together. We can’t lose that now. For Billy.”

Rick had no protest; Casey had no objection.

It was a victory.

For whatever that was worth. Because Billy had still been hanged, and all they could do was wait.

-o-

This time, he came back slowly. Billy was first aware of the gnawing pain in his throat. It felt different somehow -- a little muted -- but nothing could eradicate the throbbing in its entirety. Though with the edge gone, he became keenly cognizant of how wrong it felt, like everything was out of place somehow.

Then he remembered the noose yanking him roughly off the ground and the mind-splitting agony.

There was no somehow about it. What they’d done to him...

He tried to swallow, and remembered too late how foolish the act was. His throat protested, and his body seized as he tried to breathe and ended up gagging instead. When he tried to move he found himself restrained, neck stiffly in place, chin forced almost painfully high.

Someone put a hand on his arm, warm and reassuring -- but foreign. Billy couldn’t recognize the smell, and it was too small, feminine.

He opened his eyes.

It was still bright, but perhaps not as glaring as it was before. It still took him a moment to adjust his vision, and another long moment after that to cope with the stunting pressure in his throat and the disturbing rise and fall of his chest even as air didn’t pass through his mouth. There were noises -- whirs and beeps -- but with the neck brace he found that he couldn’t even look to see.

With pain came fear, and when Billy found himself trembling again he wasn’t sure he could actually identify the cause. He reckoned this was better than swinging by his neck, but that had happened so fast, the darkness had come so quickly.

This was different. Long and uncertain and unsettling.

There was a woman by her side, still in scrubs but she was unmasked this time. “Senor Gillespie,” she said, her accent thick as she stumbled over his alias. “Do you know where you are?”

The English was cumbersome but thankfully understandable. Billy tracked her with his eyes as best he could from his position, and opened his mouth to speak before he remembered. The odd flow of air made him shudder and tears sprang to his eyes.

She squeezed again, her matronly face sympathetic. “You cannot speak,” she said. “Please, do not try.”

He furrowed his brow, trying to make sense of that. On the one hand, confirmation was appreciated. On the other, medical confirmation that he couldn’t speak was not exactly reassuring as to his condition.

“The rope did much damage,” she said, gesturing with her other hand to her own throat. “I am afraid that your trachea has been badly injured.”

Billy’s mind raced, a sweat breaking out on his forehead. His trachea. His windpipe. That small but ever so important bone that let him breathe--

Billy’s eyes burned, his throat itching. His neck was on fire and everything was hazy. He needed to breathe; he needed to--

“You currently have a surgical airway in your throat to keep your airway open,” she explained, slowly and carefully. “We have you hooked up to oxygen as a precaution while your vitals continue to stabilize.”

Stabilize. That was good. That had to be good.

They’d stabilized him by a surgical airway.

Billy was no doctor, but he understood the implications. They’d stabilized him by cutting a bloody hole in his throat and pushing oxygen through it.

The thought made his stomach roil and his cold sweat spread. His palms were balmy, sweat starting to slick his back where he was lying on the hospital gurney.

If he could speak, he’d crack a joke. Maybe try to flirt. Anything to divert attention from his obvious discomfort and mounting fear. The words could distract; the words could calm.

There were no bloody words.

He closed his mouth purposefully, and tried to keep himself still.

She pulled her hand away. “Is there someone we can talk to about your condition?” she asked.

It was instinct to open his mouth, regardless of what he’d just been told. Instinct to prattle off the names of his mate, aliases and all, as easy as he pleased. Talk about young Rick’s boyish complexion, mention Casey’s dour disposition. Explain Michael’s hair, sprouting more grays by the second while he sits inevitably idle in a waiting room.

No words.

The nurse was ahead of him, though, holding out a pen and paper.

Billy glanced down, feeling even more pathetic as he reached out shakily. The nurse had to assist him, scooting her chair closer as she helped get the pen in his hand and held the paper steady while he wrote in a sloppy scrawl.

When he was done, the nurse took the pen and looked at the pad. “These are your friends in the waiting room?” she asked.

Billy blinked a few times, offering her the faintest hint of a smile. He tried to work up a twinkle in his eye but found that he didn’t have it in him at the moment. 

“Do you want us to explain your condition to them?”

Billy worked his jaw, wishing he could just tell her to explain everything they knew. They were like family, after all. They all had secrets, but not from each other. Not about this.

But his tacit agreement would have to suffice.

She smiled again, getting to her feet, busying herself as she put the call button next to Billy’s hand. “If you need anything--”

He’d know whom to call.

The push of a button. The scrawl of a pen. Considering that Billy had very nearly died, he reckoned he should feel lucky that he was alive at all.

The nurse left and Billy closed his eyes, trying to believe that was true.

-o-

In his mind, Michael had already reconstructed the sequence of events.

Castillo had suspected Billy all along, but probably had waited to trace more of Billy’s movements. They’d been careful, but Billy had probably been seen by someone with the hostages, so that had probably been that. It had been a risk all along, but a risk Michael had deemed acceptable at the time.

A risk that had compromised Billy. All of them, for that matter. Badly.

A street abduction was a risky choice, but he figured part of it was a power play. If Castillo suspected that Billy was working with outsiders, he’d probably suspect that Billy’s abduction wouldn’t go unnoticed. Which was also why he probably took Billy back to the warehouse, which would be the first place anyone would look. 

It was also probably why the place had been low on staff and why Billy had been hanged.

It would, after all, be a telling message to whoever found Billy. A horrifying display of power and vengeance.

Billy hadn’t died, but the message was still one Michael was having a hard time shaking.

Castillo was good, but he was overconfident. He hadn’t suspected that they’d be able to follow Billy from the street and stage an immediate rescue. If they’d been any slower...

Well, that would have been bad. And they wouldn’t be in a hospital. They’d been transporting Billy back in a casket, trying their best to work through customs with a dead body.

As indelible as the image of Billy swinging limply by his neck, Michael could deduce fairly easily that he hadn’t been there long. Billy had been red faced and his eyes had started to bulge, but he hadn’t gone through the full fit of death throes that Michael had seen in other victims of hanging.

No, Billy had only been up for 10 or 20 seconds, and he hadn’t passed out from oxygen deprivation. More likely the noose had compressed his carotid artery, cutting off the flow of blood to the brain, and Billy had been out fast.

Which was why when they cut Billy down, he came back to. The blood flow had been restored and Billy had come to consciousness -- just in time to start succumbing to oxygen deprivation.

It could have been swelling, Michael knew, but Billy had gone under quickly -- and the distorted shape of his throat had been a telltale sign of trauma. When they’d jerked him up, they’d probably crushed his trachea, cutting off his airflow with or without the rope.

By the time Casey had reestablished the airway, Billy’s lungs had stopped trying to work, but his heart hadn’t quite given out. With a few rescue breaths, they had been able to restore breathing and Billy had survived the trip to the hospital.

Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean a lot. A lack of oxygen was always dangerous, and Billy had been nearly purple before they’d managed to oxygenate his brain. That could lead to damage. Irreparable damage.

And if the damage couldn’t be repaired, Billy could face other impairments as well. A broken trachea wasn’t like other broken bones. And if the arteries and vessels had been damaged--

Well, this could be far from over.

Michael knew that. He knew all of this.

But when the doctor explained it, it was still hard to hear.

The doctor hadn’t spoken English, but Rick’s Spanish was nearly flawless. He nodded seriously, eyes wide as the doctor delineated the facts, explaining the points slowly. When he was done, Rick nodded, face blank for a long moment.

“So?” Michael prompted. “How is he?”

“He’s alive,” Rick supplied, his voice sounding funny. “And stable for the moment.”

“Stable is good,” Michael said, trying to sound upbeat.

“What’s the _but,_ ” Casey interjected pointed.

Rick took a breath and let it out. “The rope -- it almost destroyed Billy’s throat,” he explained slowly. He swallowed painfully. “They’ll have to do major reconstructive surgery to repair the trachea and surrounding tissue.”

Michael kept himself still, very still, not trusting himself to move.

Casey snorted. “And we’re trusting these idiots?”

“This is the best hospital in the country,” Michael supplied quietly. He knew that, because he’d done his homework. For whatever that was worth now.

Rick nodded, blinking rapidly now. “They think they can repair it, but it’ll be a long surgery.”

“And if they can’t?” Michael asked.

Shrugging, Rick looked bleak. “Then he’ll have to have the trach permanently.”

Permanently. A hole in his neck for the rest of his life. The idea of it was almost impossible to understand. Impossible to accept.

The doctor interjected in rapid fire Spanish, nodding and gesturing a few times.

Rick nodded along with him, continuing. “While most of the damage is to the trachea, there also appears to be a fracture in the voice box.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Michael prompted.

The doctor said something else, and Rick took a sharp breath. “It means he may never speak again.”

It seemed like it shouldn’t matter as much. They’d cut Billy down from a noose, after all. He’d almost watched Billy die. The fact that Billy was expected to live was supposed to be the important thing.

But Billy was a spy. He needed to breathe normally. The scars would be risk enough. 

And this was Billy. He didn’t need words to charm most of the people he met, but words were Billy’s safety net. They were his greatest assets to talk marks into compromising positions, to talk his way out of danger, to pass the time on a long mission. He told stories, read poetry, sang songs. Without his voice...he’d hardly be Billy.

“He wants to see us,” Rick said.

Michael startled, looking at Rick in surprise. “He’s awake?”

Rick shrugged. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “Apparently he’s asking for us.”

That was unexpected. But in a good way, for once.

“Okay, then,” he said, getting to his feet, finding his resolve once again. His eyes lingered on Rick, who still looked too young, and Casey, who still looked too blank, before he nodded again. “Let’s go see Billy.”

-o-

Being still had never been one of Billy’s strengths. Ever since he was a lad he’d been full of restless energy, prone to fidgeting and meddling, no matter where he was or what he was doing. It got him in trouble more often than not. He was often disciplined at school, and his da had never been fond of the way he bounced in and out of the house while football was on.

Becoming a spy had been a smart career move; that way he could use his energy and direct it to the greater good. Now when he fidgeted, he did so in the name of national security. All that energy was perfect for forging covers and sneaking into top secret locales without warranting nary a second glance.

But now, he had all that pent up energy and no way to expend it. Someone had put morphine in his drip, which had helped take the edge off the pain, but nothing could quite calm his ever-fraying nerves. Because he was stuck on his back, the brace keeping him securely in place. If he moved -- even the slightest flinch -- the tube in his throat pulled, and the tugging sensation was more than a little unpleasant.

It was irrational, Billy knew, but he couldn’t help but worry that one wrong move and the tube would fall out and he’d be unable to breathe again.

The thought made his stomach roil. The memory was strong and surreal, the pain and the pressure and the pressing need for air--

He blinked rapidly, staring at the ceiling and doing his best to regain control. He was an operative. A trained spy. He’d survived the bloody hanging. He could manage the hospital bed.

Except he wasn’t sure he was. In all honesty, he still felt like he was hanging, still twisting in the wind--

The door opened.

He heard the noise, but when he went to turn his head he met up with resistance from the intricate brace. He settled for darting his eyes in the general direction instead, but it was still several seconds before the familiar faces came into view.

Michael was first, but Rick and Casey weren’t far behind. It was such a relief -- a palpable, overwhelming relief -- that Billy almost felt the urge to cry.

Instead, he wanted to do what he did best -- to talk.

To say something cheery, to distinguish the situation with a joke. The tension was so ripe -- the mood was so primed -- Billy was the designated comic relief--

But with the tube, he had to smile instead.

Michael smiled back warmly, walking right up and standing close by so Billy didn’t have to strain to see him. He gripped Billy shoulder, the familiar squeeze the best thing he’d felt all day.

“Got yourself into a mess this time,” Michael mused.

Billy tried to shrug, but even that small motion was beyond his capacity. He worked his lips, mouthing _sorry._

“Nah,” Michael said, wrinkling his nose. “Just be grateful you don’t have to be in the waiting room with Martinez and Malick.”

Billy blinked, eyes darting over Michael’s shoulder to where his other two teammates were standing. Rick looked a little scared; Casey looked terrifying.

Chest constricted, Billy found himself struggling to keep the air moving normally through his lungs.

Michael’s fingers squeezed again. “Just relax,” he said. “You’re fine. Doctor told us you’ll need some work done, but he sounded pretty upbeat from what I could tell.”

Billy dared to hope.

Michael jerked his head toward Rick. “Of course, I’m trusting Rick’s translation skills.”

It was a joke, an attempt to lighten the mood. Normally, that was Billy’s job, but all things considered....

Rick inched forward, looking down at Billy steadily. “They’re good here,” he said. “A little work, you’ll be out of...this, in no time.” He gestured vaguely to the brace and the tube.

Billy inhaled awkwardly, blinking rapidly, his only way to communicate that he understood.

“You feeling okay?” Michael asked.

Billy lifted his eyebrows. He was immobilized in a neck brace with a tube coming out of his neck. His windpipe had effectively been crushed by being strung up with force. 

Michael smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, okay, point taken,” he murmured.

Billy tried to smile, tried to relax. He found both more than a little difficult.

“Hey,” Michael said, and he waited until Billy’s eyes locked on his again. “It really is going to be okay.”

Billy wanted to believe him, but when he tried to take a deep, steadying breath, all of his willpower wavered again. He tried to swallow, to shift, but the entire process was wrong, and all he could do was lie there helplessly while his friends watched on.

Michael glanced over toward the IV, nodding a little. “They got you on the good stuff.”

“Morphine,” Casey observed. “No wonder you’re a mess.”

Even Casey was trying, playing the part. Billy wanted to reply, but could only furrow his brow in mock indignation.

“Morphine’s probably the best thing for him,” Rick countered, somewhat oblivious.

“Sure, for the pain,” Michael said. “But Billy has never handled his pain meds overly well.”

“He can drink an entire liquor store, but the minute you get the happy juice flowing Billy’s an overly emotional idiot,” Casey said, shaking his head. Then he paused, thoughtful. “Then again, he’s always an overly emotional idiot, so maybe there’s not much change after all.”

That was enough to make Billy grin in earnest. It was an effort, but he lifted his hand. Even if he couldn’t see it, he held out his middle finger.

Rick laughed and Casey scowled. 

Michael was grinning, patting him on the shoulder before finally letting go. “Glad to see this hasn’t hindered your sense of humor,” he mused.

“Or lack thereof,” Casey growled.

Michael shifted, face falling slightly. “So, Martinez tells me they’ll be taking you up for surgery here soon,” he explained.

Billy blinked a few times, trying to incline his head before he remembered the brace once again.

“The doctor sounded pretty good about it,” Rick said, stepping a little closer. 

Billy tried to breathe deeply, wishing again he could speak. Because he’d heard platitudes. He wanted to know the truth.

“He deserves to know the full prognosis,” Casey said.

Billy glanced toward him gratefully.

Michael hesitated, but finally nodded. “They’ve got to do some reconstructive work on your trachea,” he said. “It sounds pretty crazy, but they’ve been doing these procedures for years. There’s every reason to believe they’ll repair the damage and you’ll heal up and we can get that tube out of your throat.”

That sounded good. That sounded really good. 

Billy closed his eyes, working to control his emotions.

This time, it was Rick who squeezed his wrist, looking intently at Billy when he opened his eyes. “And we’ll be here the whole time,” he promised. “Right here when you wake up.”

Billy managed a small, wavering smile as he looked at them all in turn again. They were there, steady and unyielding. That counted for something. It counted for a lot. They’d cut him down; they’d saved his life; they’d still be here on the other side.

The tears burned again, and he wanted to curse in frustration. Casey was right; he couldn’t handle the drugs. But it was more than that. The vulnerability of being laid out and exposed. He had no means to cover himself, not even a wayward phrase to protect his shaken psyche and damaged body.

It was a lot to handle.

It was almost too much.

But with his team -- with his mates -- he had to think he could make it through.

At the very least, he had to hope, because the alternative was...

Well, the alternative didn’t bear talking about.

Not that Billy could talk at all.


	2. Chapter 2

They’d been taken to a surgical waiting room, and as they settled down for what the doctor had promised would be a lengthy surgery, Michael found himself regaining control. It wasn’t really a surprise to him; this was what he did. If the image of Billy dangling lifeless in front of him had been paralyzing, the sight of Billy trussed up in a hospital bed had reminded him that he still had a job to do.

An important job, at that. Not just securing national interests and preventing threats to America’s sovereignty, but his team. There were three men in the ODS who he was responsible for.

Three of them.

One of them was in surgery, hopefully getting the best treatment Michael could hope for under the circumstances. The other two were right next to him, looking worse for wear and hanging to their self control by a thread. He’d cut Billy down, now it was time to focus a bit on the others.

Casey was still rigid, staring ruthlessly at the wall and anyone who dared cross his path. His fingers twitched, his toes wriggling in his shoes -- the only evidence of just how unnerved he still was. Casey was trained like no other operative he’d ever met. He was the most capable man Michael had known, with self discipline that defied all conventions. Maybe that was why the vulnerabilities of others hit him so hard. With most people, he could direct his fear to hatred, but when it was one of their own, he had a much harder time.

Of course, Casey also wasn’t one to accept comfort. Billy benefited from a squeeze on the shoulder or a rousing exchange of verbal sparring, but Casey was more likely to shut down than appreciate such tactics.

No, Casey required a different kind of distraction. In truth, he’d probably appreciate hand-to-hand combat to vent his frustrations. Since that wasn’t possible at the moment, Michael would give him something different to divert his growing rage.

“Hey,” he said, nodding toward the older operative. “You think you can call this one in?”

Casey glared at him immediately. “You want me to take a break to check in?” he asked. “We haven’t checked in for a week.”

“Exactly,” Michael said. “We’re going to need support at some point when it comes to Billy’s operation. Besides, we left Castillo and his unruly gang tied up and locked in a shed. It’s only a matter of time before someone finds them, and I don’t know about you, but I’d rather it be someone who will make them pay.”

Casey’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “I can go back and make sure they pay,” he offered darkly.

“I’m thinking maybe calling Fay to have her send in the Ecuadorian Army might be the best option,” he suggested instead. “Castillo has been a pain in the government’s ass down here, if only for his reputation of operating right under their noses. They won’t pass up a chance to take him down.”

Casey snorted derisively. “If they’d made an effort, we could have avoided all this.”

And Billy might not be in surgery, breathing through his throat. That wasn’t the point, though. At least not the point Michael needed Casey to be dwelling on.

“Well, we’re making the effort now,” he said. 

Casey made a face. “And I have to call in?” he asked. “You know I’m not the most diplomatic one of the bunch.”

No, that was Billy. But that didn’t need to be said.

Michael shrugged. “That’s the point,” he said. “I want action; you can make it happen.”

Casey stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to gauge if Michael was really serious. When Michael didn’t even blink, his expression tightened and he got to his feet. “Fine,” he muttered. “But I will not be held responsible if I somehow offend the hierarchy of command. I’ll tell them I’m working directly under your orders.”

Michael inclined his head in assent as Casey made his way out of the waiting area and down the hall. He would have to find a secure, private location, and the phone call wouldn’t be fun or easy or short. Though with Casey making the requests, somehow Michael knew it’d be shorter than Michael could make it.

It would be long enough, though. Both to get forces to Castillo’s compound and to help Casey alleviate some of his building stress. Two birds with one stone.

Which meant it was time to shift his focus to the last operative on hand.

Martinez was slumped in a chair kitty-corner to Michael, shoulders stooped low and gaze a little vacant. He’d made no attempt to offer suggestions to Michael’s makeshift plan to Malick, which was a sure sign that the kid had disengaged. It wasn’t a good sign, all things considered. Rick was too over zealous for his own good. For him to be disinvested from any aspect of a mission was usually a clear indication that something was wrong.

Of course, Michael knew what was wrong. They’d found Billy hanged and watched him almost suffocate before cutting open his throat. Their visit with Billy had assured him that he probably wasn’t going to die, which was some relief, but it had made it plain just how difficult it would be for the Scot to bounce back.

He gathered a breath and tried to smile. “You doing okay, kid?”

Rick didn’t move, didn’t even turn his eyes to look at Michael.

Michael hesitated, pressing his lips together, trying to piece together his best effort. Casey needed to channel his rage; Billy needed to be distracted. Rick needed to deal with the issue head on, but with care and sensitivity.

According to Fay, those things had never been his strength, but to Michael, it was all a matter of the right time and place. He didn’t see much need to be sensitive about picking a movie on a Saturday night. Trying to coax an operative off an emotional ledge, on the other hand, was really part of the job.

This was why he was a damn good operative -- and a piss poor husband.

“It really is going to be okay,” he said. “I know things were pretty tense back there--”

At that, Rick grunted, looking at Michael incredulously.

Michael didn’t let himself be dissuaded. “But you also saw Billy just now,” he said. “Considering what he just went through, he looked pretty damn good.”

That was somewhat true. Billy hadn’t been blue anymore, and the medical equipment had made the hole in his throat seem less garish. And he’d been awake and coherent -- those two things made a huge difference. Billy was still Billy, and even if there were some complications, the oxygen deprivation hadn’t caused any damage. 

That counted for something. It counted for a lot.

Rick diverted his gaze, shaking his head. “You didn’t tell him.”

Michael frowned. “Tell him what?”

When Rick continued, his voice was quiet. “That he may never speak again.”

The blood drained from Michael’s face. It hadn’t been an overt decision, at least not one that he’d thought about before walking into Billy’s room. But seeing Billy laid out on the bed, seeing the fear in his eyes -- he couldn’t make that worse. Because the idea of Billy not speaking...

He wouldn’t acknowledge it now. He didn’t tell Billy because it wouldn’t do the Scot any good. And he wasn’t going to dwell on it here with Martinez because it sure as hell wouldn’t help the kid cope with what they’d just been through. “We’ll deal with that if we have to,” he said. “Getting the tube out of Billy’s throat is the first thing we need to worry about.”

Rick nodded absently. “What if the last thing Billy had said was him trying to beg for his life?”

Michael didn’t flinch, but only just. It wasn’t an easy thing to think about. He had to work to keep his breathing even, trying not to think too much about that. Trying not to think about Billy’s cover being blown, about the way he would have tried to talk his way out of it. Tried not to think of the superfluous words that hadn’t failed him--

Before a noose was tightened and all the words were cut off. Maybe permanently.

He shook his head. “It won’t be.”

“But what if it is?” Rick persisted. “Shouldn’t we have told him? Doesn’t he deserve the truth?”

The truth. Michael had always treated the truth as a commodity, something he could control and parcel out as needed. Trust among spies was a fragile thing, but he’d lied to his men more than once for their benefit -- and for his.

But this wasn’t about the truth. This was about belief.

“The truth isn’t everything,” Michael replied. “Besides, you should know by now that the truth is subjective and often what we make it. Telling Billy that he might never talk would only have made things worse.”

Because Billy had been scared enough. Without his words, the Scottish operative had been clearly struggling to retain his composure. To tell him that he might never get them back...

Well, Michael had wanted to help buoy Billy’s odds in surgery, not diminish them by taking away more of his hope. Castillo had put the noose on Billy’s neck, Michael wasn’t about to keep pulling it tight until Billy had no choice but to give.

He didn’t want to admit he was still helpless in all of this, that he still felt like he was sitting there, as watching Billy suffocated, doing nothing. He couldn’t.

Rick looked at him again, the tension drained from his face. He looked tired now, and very young again. “What if the truth isn’t something we want it to be?”

It rarely was. Not in Michael’s life -- not in Billy’s or Casey’s. Not even for the ODS or spies in general. But that wasn’t the point.

Rick didn’t need his doubts or recriminations. He needed a strong leader to be certain, even if he wasn’t certain at all.

So Michael sat back, smirking just a little. “Remember your first day on the job? When you came in there and lied to us?”

Rick blinked, but nodded. “Yeah, and you lied right back.”

“Exactly,” Michael said. “We’ve been controlling the truth since day one with you. It hasn’t turned out exactly the way we want, but I think it’s been okay.”

Rick didn’t argue.

“This is no different,” Michael said. “I promise.”

Michael wasn’t as good with words as Billy -- and the Scot definitely had a way with the kid. But Michael would be good enough for now. 

Rick relaxed just a little, exhaling heavily. “If Billy were here, he’d tell me a story about wild dogs or something.”

Michael made a face. “And that would help?”

Rick smiled distantly. “Yeah,” he said.

Michael chuckled. “Yeah,” he mused. “I guess it probably would. When he wakes up, we’ll have to have him tell me that one so I’m caught up.”

Rick laughed, but then silence hung precariously, stretching between them as they waited. Michael wanted to say something more -- anything -- but he didn’t know what.

He couldn’t find the words.

-o-

Awareness came in violent snatches. His consciousness had dissipated in the operating room, slipping from him imperceptibly as the impact of the drugs mounted, and after that the darkness was cloying, broken by harsh snippets of reality.

He opened his eyes and saw an unfamiliar ceiling. A masked face hovered above him and the voices were distant, far away, before he was yanked roughly back under again.

The next time, the pain was acute and a monitor was beeping. Someone was talking to him, feminine and close to his ear. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Nothing--

Light. The pain was aching, nagging. He tried to regulate his breathing but found it difficult, found it--

“Hey.”

The voice was one he recognized, one he knew. He tried to turn his head, but found himself stuck. He had a moment of panic before Michael’s face came into view.

Billy took a moment, trying to steady himself, but when he opened his mouth nothing worked the way it was supposed to.

“Whoa,” Michael coaxed, settling a hand on his arm. “Can’t speak just yet, remember?”

Billy’s mind raced. He remembered...he remembered--

The tube, the brace. Castillo and the warehouse. Being nabbed off the street--

Hanging.

He shuddered.

Michael smiled anyway. “It’ll come back to you,” he said reassuringly, as if reading Billy’s mind. “You were pretty lucid before the surgery, but given the heavy duty drugs they put you on it’s no wonder things are a bit hazy for you at the moment.”

Before the surgery. To repair his--

Throat.

Billy tensed at the memory, lifting his hand and getting part way to his neck before Michael grabbed it, easing it back to the bed. 

“It went well, by the way,” Michael explained easily, as if this was a normal conversation, not Billy with a hole in his neck on a hospital bed. “They were able to fix your trachea. They showed us some x-rays, which looked sort of like a Rorschach test to me, but supposedly that means that the reconstruction went well. They need to give you some time to heal, but they think you’ll be able to lose the tube eventually.”

Eventually. Billy felt air filter in his lungs, but his mouth felt weird. Things were heavy still, but he could make out the sensation of something wrapped around his neck. Not tight, but firm. Not digging, not compressing, but it still made him squirm.

Not that he could. The brace was still there and his body was weak and he was so tired...

“Anyway, one of us will be here when you wake up again,” Michael told him, softer now.

It would have been easy to drift, to let himself drift away. 

But the helplessness made him rebel, if only on principle alone. He opened his eyes wider, meeting Michael’s gaze with fresh urgency. He furrowed his brow, the need to speak almost pushing him to the brink of his self control. Finally, he worked up his energy and mouthed, “My voice?”

Michael’s face froze, just for a moment. It was hardly a millisecond, but it was telling. Billy felt his stomach lurch, his entire body going cold.

Michael recovered quickly, though, offering him a confident smile. “It’s too early to think about that.”

It wasn’t a lie, at least, but the distraction wouldn’t work, not this time.

Billy blinked earnest, pleading as best he could for Michael to tell him.

Michael’s face went taut, and then he sighed. “They’re playing it cautious with the prognosis,” he admitted finally. “There’s a small fracture in your voice box. It’s probably nothing, but they’ve got to let it heal before they see what kind of impact it’ll have.”

The words were carefully chosen to tell Billy the optimistic version of the truth. But Billy was injured, not stupid, and drugs or not, he could read pretty clearly between the lines.

He’d be able to breathe normally, but he may never talk.

It was hard to comprehend, even if the meaning was entirely clear. Castillo had not only crushed his windpipe, but damaged his voice box. Billy didn’t know how to explain the total terror of such a prognosis, that talking _was_ breathing. He’d always counted on talking until he ran out of breath. Silence...

Well, Billy didn’t know how to face the silence. That was why he sang random songs and recited wayward poetry. It was why he slept with the TV on and strummed his guitar through breakfast. It was why the months after his deportation had been so hard -- not just losing his friends and his life and his honor -- but being totally _alone._ In a country with no one to talk to, no one who wanted to listen to him at all.

He’d talked his way into the ODS and had been talking ever since. It was who he was. It was everything.

And it might be gone.

Michael’s fingers tightened knowingly. “It’s too early to worry,” he said, emphatic now.

Too early. Too late. Billy was still suspended, still hanging, waiting to know the outcome.

He let his eyes close, chest tight and throat aching.

Waiting for everything to end.

-o-

Really, it was good news. Billy’s surgery had gone well. Better than expected, actually, if the doctor’s enthusiastic report was to be believed. Michael’s Spanish was rudimentary at best, but the glowing smile on the man’s face as he gestured to Billy’s x-ray had been encouraging.

Billy wasn’t going to die. And he wasn’t going to spend his life with a hole in his throat, relying on a tube to breathe.

Michael had taken this to heart, reminded it to Casey and Rick as often as he could. But even Billy had realized the thing that wasn’t being said--

That none of this ensured whether or not Billy would talk again.

The doctor’s official prognosis was nothing more than _wait and see._ But his lackluster disposition when Rick had translated Michael’s pointed question had been answer enough. At best, Billy’s odds were about fifty-fifty.

There was a fifty percent chance Billy would recover and be back to his normal chatty self, annoying Casey in the breakroom and flirting with women on missions.

There was also a fifty percent chance that Billy would never make another sound, that he’d be relegated to whispers and hoarse keening for the rest of his life. This wouldn’t just take Billy out of the field; it would probably take a bit of Billy’s soul.

Given the dejected look on his face when he slipped back into unconscious, Michael suspected it might take a lot of Billy’s soul.

Still, good news. Michael was going to focus on the good news.

Which was why he smiled brightly when he came out of Billy’s room, nodding encouragingly to Rick and Casey who were perched nervously in a small waiting area nearby.

“So?” Rick asked, getting out of his seat and half coming to meet Michael.

“He’s awake,” Michael told them. “Or, he was. He was out again pretty quickly. But given that he just endured major surgery, I think it’s pretty good.”

Over eager and exhausted, Rick could only stare at him intensely for a long moment. “So he’s okay,” he said.

It wasn’t the most stellar observation, but it’d been a long night in the hospital, and there was only so much coffee could do to keep them alert and with it. Martinez was on his last legs both physically and emotionally, so Michael wasn’t about to call the kid on his sudden lapse in intelligence.

“Yeah,” Michael said. “He’s okay.”

“For someone with a hole in his throat,” Casey grumbled. He’d been off for several hours, arranging things with Langley. He also smelled vaguely of blood and whisky when he returned, so Michael expected the other man had made a few other much needed stop while he was out.

For someone who Michael had been pretty sure was going to die – Billy was most definitely okay.

That wasn’t the right thing to say, though.

He shrugged coolly, eyes on Casey. “For anyone,” he said, voice even and unyielding. 

Casey said nothing.

Rick nodded. “So we can see him?”

“Yeah, I think it’ll be best if we take turns with him, at least until he’s off the drugs a little more,” Michael said.

“He’s clingy under normal circumstances,” Casey groused. “When he’s drugged up, he’s like a damn leech, sucking all your energy and sanity.”

It was true, though it wasn’t exactly the most forgiving portrait. Michael knew Billy well enough to know that the drugs lowered his defenses, made him vulnerable. That vulnerability made him reach out for tactile reassurance. It wasn’t exactly Michael’s favorite thing either, but since Billy was only drugged up when he was injured, it was hard to fault him for it.

Especially when it was usually Michael’s fault.

“Still,” Michael said, turning his eyes back to Rick. “Maybe you’d like to sit with him for a bit? Before going over to the motel to get some sleep?”

He said it casually, like it was incidental, hoping that Rick would realize what Michael was doing. The kid needed to sleep this off more than the rest of them, but with his damn earnestness and big, scared eyes, he wasn’t likely to listen to straight up common sense.

Tired as he was, though, Rick only nodded tacitly. 

“Oh, and let’s be sure to keep things positive,” he added, stopping Rick before he could move toward Billy’s room.

Casey raised his eyebrows. 

Michael sighed. “It’s still a lot for Billy to take in,” he said. “You know how much he hates being still, and he’s going to be laid up for a while. Plus, he keeps trying to speak, and if we want him to heal with the least setbacks we need to keep him calm.”

Rick seemed to pale a little.

Casey blew out a frustrated breath. “I’m not a nursemaid, Michael.”

“No, but you are his teammate,” he shot back. “And his friend. Besides, who was the one who stayed with you and kept you conscious during that mission in Greenland?”

Casey’s face drew down, darkening into a sulk.

Michael looked at Rick. “And don’t let him think about his voice,” he said, the order gentle but firm. “He’s got enough on his mind.”

Rick’s brows furrowed but he nodded.

“We’ll get through this,” Michael said, trying to sound like he meant it. “You’ll see.”

He had to say it. Because he had to believe it.

Because the person who would normally say it couldn’t speak at all.

-o-

Billy wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He woke periodically, eyes flitting around the room. Michael was there. Then Rick. Then Casey. They talked; they laughed; Billy slept.

And woke. Longer periods. Tests with the doctors. Scans in machines. Lights shone--

Lights faded. He woke in the dark, blinking up into the dimness. Michael roused and came next to him, squeezing his shoulder, telling him it was okay, it was just fine--

Martinez talking about growing up with brothers. He told stories--

Casey spoke grudgingly. Reminded Billy of their past missions and their foibles, all they’d done--

And then the entire medical team was there. Billy startled in surprise.

“We’re just taking out the trach today, remember?” Michael asked, sliding in easily next to Billy. He was beaming this time.

There was movement and pressure, someone palpating his throat next as the bandages were unwrapped. The air was cold against his skin and he flinched. Michael’s hand tightened and Billy forced himself to still.

Someone said something; hands moved above his head. Then something hissed, plastic popped and his throat convulsed.

The sudden shock was almost too much and Billy coughed wretchedly, body jerking as he flailed. He was choking and hacking, struggling and--

Breathing.

The air went in through his mouth, passing over his tongue and down his newly constructed airway--

And out again.

In.

And out.

He was breathing.

The doctors were still fussing, putting an oxygen cannula under his nose, hastily rewrapping his still-healing throat. But Billy didn’t care. His eyes filled with tears inexplicably and when he lifted his head -- the brace finally gone -- he met Michael’s eyes with nothing short of joy.

He wanted to say thank you. To tell Michael that he’d been right. To say how amazing this felt.

But when he opened his mouth, the air came in and--

Choked on the way out.

His tongue moved, his lips formed words but there was no sound.

He swallowed awkwardly, face scrunching in concentration. Above him, Michael’s face was creased with concern, his hand unmoving. “Hey, come on,” Michael coaxed. “You need to take it easy. Focus on breathing.”

Breathing. In and out. Billy couldn’t take it for granted, not after the time that had passed. He’d been told the odds. He’d been told the risks. He’d been told a lot of things, and done his best to hope to the contrary.

Because that was what Billy did. He smiled and feigned happiness; he said a lot of things he didn’t mean because the things that were true weren’t very pleasant. He’d striven for that optimism, tried to find it. It was all he’d had, small smiles and hopeful glances, while he waited.

There had been talk of speech therapy; about giving his voice box time to recover. It might take a while, he’d been warned.

Or it might never happen.

The sense of loss was palpable; the disappointment was impossible to hide. His failure was evident.

For once, at least it didn’t matter if he couldn’t speak.

Because there was nothing to say that made any of it okay.

-o-

Michael was right.

He usually was. He made a point of it. Even when he wasn’t, he was pretty good at manipulating the facts until it seemed like he was.

In this case, he really was right. They were going to get through this. Billy’s recovery was actually faster than anticipated -- the doctors were positively glowing in their reports. Michael half expected that they put Billy’s x-rays up in the doctor’s lounge just to brag about how well it was going. 

On that front, Michael couldn’t complain. Billy was awake and breathing. The incisions on his neck were starting to heal, the ligature marks fading to bruises.

And he was doing better emotionally, too. Flirting with the doctors, winking at the nurses. He perfected his range of nonverbal responses, and could evoke laughter or sympathy with a simple look alone. In this, he was maybe even more charming than ever. His injuries tugged at the hearts of even the most uptight hospital personnel -- and his woeful puppy dog eyes and effervescent smile made him an instant celebrity.

By all accounts, Michael was more than right. They were going to get through this with a flourish. The doctors were already talking about releasing Billy and clearing him to fly home. Higgins had approved their unsanctioned mission and all the pieces were falling into place.

Except Billy still couldn’t talk.

He could whisper, of course. Near-noiseless words that were hard to understand when Billy got going. And he’d started to make some noises, which they were told was a good sign. His voice box was healing -- at least to some degree -- so he’d probably regain some verbal abilities in time.

Some, though maybe not all. As it was, Billy could make odd grunts and hums, inarticulate sounds that were more akin to animals than humans. Billy blushed vigorously every session with the speech therapist, who told him he was doing great.

For a man who had been hanged, he really was doing great.

But Michael could see the toll it was taking. He could see the flickering smile on Martinez’ face, the awkward stiffness in Casey’s posture. They overcompensated for it, of course, telling stories and cracking jokes with more consistency than they ever had before. They talked for Billy, learning to read his cues, responding to his needs before the Scot ever had a chance to vocalize them.

They were doing everything they could. But they couldn’t fix Billy’s voice. They couldn’t give him his words back, no matter how hard they tried or what efforts they made.

To make matters worse, there was nothing Billy could do either. Sure, he did his vocal exercises. He worked as hard as he could, but in the end it wouldn’t make as much difference as they wanted it to. Billy’s ability to speak depending on how well his voice box healed. It could be a full recovery.

Or it might never get better.

No one said that, and Michael half suspected that Rick and Casey didn’t let themselves think it. But Billy thought it. Billy just _knew._

Michael could see it, haunting his eyes, the niggling but growing uncertainty even when he smiled. And when he thought he was alone, or when no one was looking, his shoulders slouched, his face went lax -- Billy knew.

Michael could straighten things out with Langley, run interference with the doctors. He could calm Casey and encourage Rick. But his platitudes did nothing for Billy, no matter how hard the Scot tried to hide it.

The harder it got for Billy, the more the others compensated. Rick positively doted; Casey was almost nice. And Billy withdrew, little by little. He still smiled brilliantly and played so coy, but the weight of it was taking its toll, almost choking them all by degrees.

Still, Michael was right.

Except for the ways he suspected he might be horribly wrong.

-o-

Billy was waiting.

He found he did that a lot these days. Being relegated to a hospital room didn’t afford him much in the way of entertainment. Normally, he might be able to charm one of the nurses into staying more than she ought, but no matter how adorable he was -- injured and ruffled in his current state -- they never could be convinced to stay for long with his lack of conversation.

The language barrier was enough of an obstacle. Without his vocal inflections, his whispered tales of greatness and peril simply did not translate.

It was to be expected, he told himself. A minor setback.

Shifting in his bed, feeling the healing wound tug at the skin of his throat, he thought maybe it was a bit more than that.

He’d forgone the hospital robes as soon as he could, and Michael had been diligent in bringing his clothes. They were a tad looser than before -- without the ability to swallow food for so long, he’d lost some weight -- but they were more comfortable. Plus, he thought as he fiddled with the collar, pulling it just a touch higher, if he folded the collars higher, he could hide most of the damage.

True, Billy was never one to eschew sympathy, but he hated that people didn’t look him in the eyes anymore -- they looked at his throat. By the time they made eye contact, they’d learned more about him than Billy cared to share. Even the ODS did it, looking at the fading marks and remembering what happened before looking away in guilt. Billy almost couldn’t stand it. The best thing about talking, after all, was that he could use his words to control what people knew and cared about. Without that...

Billy adjusted his shirt once more, trying to not look conspicuous. Without his words, he was more vulnerable than ever.

Without his words, Billy found there wasn’t actually much for him to do. Even now, all he could do and sit and wait while his mates sorted things out with the hospital. He was being cleared to leave -- a bit early, perhaps -- and normally Billy took pride in sweet talking his way into an earlier release, but this time it had been Michael’s planning, Casey’s glowering, and Rick’s translation that did the trick. All he had to do was sit here.

And wait.

And wait some more.

Billy sighed -- it was one of the few sounds he could make that still sounded normal, which was some consolation. He didn’t like to be bored any more than he liked to be silent. But there was literally nothing to do. Rick had even packed his bloody clothes.

He had been staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles, when finally the door opened. Michael led, grinning at Billy, Rick only a step behind holding up the papers triumphantly while Casey slipped in behind him.

“We got them!” Rick said.

Billy smiled back, if only because Rick’s sheer exuberance was a bit contagious.

“Took some work, but all you need to do is sign them,” Rick continued coming closer to Billy and handing them over.

“Thank you, lad,” Billy whispered, taking the papers. He paused, looking for a pen--

Before Michael held one out. “Took more than a little work,” he said, quirking his lips wryly. “Your doctor was in surgery so we had to convince the nurse to help us.”

“Which would have been easier if the charge nurse wasn’t completely devoid of compassion,” Casey said gruffly. “Her fondness for the rules represent everything that is wrong with modern healthcare around the world.”

Billy lifted his eyebrows. “Sounds like a bit of a spot.”

“It was,” Michael continued. “I thought we might have to scrub in ourselves to get the signature.”

Billy shrugged, gesturing with one hand. “You should have told me. I could have helped--”

Rick shook his head. “Nah, we got it.”

“Thanks to Martinez here,” Michael said with a grin.

“The kid was mildly impressive,” Casey agreed grudgingly.

Billy waited for the rest of the story expectantly.

A shy smile spread across Rick’s face. “It was mostly a group effort,” he said. Then he made a face. “The details don’t really matter, anyway.”

Michael snorted. “If you say so.”

Rick gave him a look. “The important thing is Billy’s going home,” he concluded, quite proud. “We’re all going home.”

They were bright; they were beaming. They’d gone out of their way for Billy’s sake and conquered the difficult intricacies of foreign health care. How they had accomplished this, Billy didn’t know. He hadn’t been there; they hadn’t told him. He thought maybe to ask, but the whispered words wouldn’t come. They’d probably sound a touch pathetic anyway.

The door opened before he could come up with another thought. The litany of Spanish was fast and hard to discern, but the agitated tone was fairly easy to make out.

Michael was on his feet, clearly concerned. Casey had tensed, and Rick met Billy’s main nurse head on, replying to her Spanish fluently.

Rick nodded a few times, then glanced briefly at Billy. “She needs to check you one more time apparently,” he said. He looked sheepish. “She wasn’t too happy when she found out we’d gone over her head to get you discharged.”

Billy smiled impishly. “Of course she wasn’t,” he whispered. “Marta and I have grown quite close.”

Marta clucked at Rick, moving past him to Billy. Her presence made Billy straighten expectantly. Voice or no, he had to perform. He had a reputation to protect, after all. And no Ecuadorian criminal was going to snuff that out with a noose.

Marta smiled at him, starting by taking his vitals. When she reached up to his neck, Billy did his best not to flinch, hoping no one saw how his face blanched ever so slightly whenever someone neared his neck. He hadn’t even managed to wear a tie just yet.

Marta nodded, asking something in Spanish.

“I’m not exactly sure what you want to know--” he began.

“She just wants to know about lingering pain,” Rick supplied.

“Ah,” Billy said. “I reckon there’s a twinge--”

Marta squinted at him. 

Michael leaned closer, pointing to his own neck to show. “Just a little,” he said. “Un poquito.”

Marta inclined her head, running her fingers along the scars while asking another question.

Billy watched her earnestly. “I’m afraid--”

“Swallowing,” Rick said. “She wants to be sure you can still swallow okay.”

Casey chuckled. “Considering all the crap you’ve shoved down your gullet, I think you’re fine.”

“Esta bien,” Michael supplied before Billy had a chance to get a word in edgewise.

Rick came forward again, showing Marta the papers before launching into another explanation in Spanish. Marta listened, glanced at Billy, and responded to Rick.

And Billy sat there.

Waiting. 

They were doing this for him. It was all about him, after all. 

Yet, he had very little to do with it. He just had to sit there. When they told him to sign, Billy did. When they told him to leave, he did. 

As he walked out of the hospital, it was an odd, surreal sort of thing. He’d expected this all to be harder -- not for him, because that had been hard enough -- but for them. He’d always been the talker of the team, the charmer. Casey used his fists; Rick used his heart. Michael used his brains.

Billy used his tongue.

Together they fit perfectly, all equal parts of a much better whole.

So he’d assumed that such an adjustment -- to have him silenced -- would be difficult.

But outside, blinking in the sunlight as Michael hailed a cab, Billy realized the only thing that was difficult was that they really didn’t need him to talk.

As they settled down, Rick discussing the price and Michael handing over bills while Casey loaded the truck, Billy was struck by the realization that they really didn’t need him at all.

-o-

Despite the fact that Michael generally traveled for a living, fighting on foreign soil to protect American interests, he really was something of a homebody. Coming home after a mission was always gratifying.

After a mission like this one, it was practically a relief.

Some missions went badly; that was the nature of the game. Michael wasn’t prone to theatrics or sentimentality, but he was really starting to hate South America. First, Rick and now Billy. It had taken him weeks to stop dwelling on how pale Rick had been in the back of the SUV, and every night they stayed in Ecuador, Michael still saw Billy’s slack form hanging in the air. He needed the familiar routines of Langley to get him back on his game.

Coming home was always a reset. After all, spies didn’t talk about what they did in the field. Missions were top secret, so sitting around discussing the details in the break room was generally bad form. People still _knew_ to some degree, but even if don’t ask, don’t tell was no longer a military policy, it still existed in this way in the CIA.

People probably knew what had happened to Billy in some regard. But they weren’t going to ask about it, and Michael sure as hell wasn’t going to be talking about it any time soon. Neither would Casey or Rick for that matter. And Billy--

Well, Billy wouldn’t be talking about much until he got his voice back.

And he _would_ get his voice back. Michael had to believe that, for his sake as much as Billy’s. As team leader, he needed all his men at full capacity. If Billy’s voice remained compromised, then Billy was compromised. The _team_ was compromised. 

That would be too many uncontrolled variables. Michael wouldn’t be able to tolerate it. 

The implications of that were not ones that Michael cared to consider. He didn’t need to consider them. Not now. Not ever, if the ODS had any say about it.

Because his team was strong, they were stubborn. They were good. They were resilient. Rick bounced back after being shot. Casey never let his guard down. Michael endured every mission with the same tenacity. Billy had survived having his throat crushed. He wouldn’t let that bastard Castillo take his voice any more than his life.

For Billy, Michael had to think those things were mostly the same.

“I still don’t see why this is necessary,” Casey complained.

Michael glanced his way. “It was Martinez’ idea,” he said.

“I know,” Casey said. “Which is why it’s stupid and sentimental. That doesn’t explain why we’re actually _doing_ it.”

“I don’t know,” Michael said, looking over their work. “I think Billy will like it.”

Casey rolled his eyes. “It’s a damn welcome home party, Michael. With streamers. I blew an actual balloon. This is a waste of my skills.”

Michael grinned, nodding over the cleaned up flat again. It had been Martinez’ idea -- his damn near _insistence_ \-- but Michael had readily agreed. Of course, he hadn’t counted on having to actually outfit the office and buy snacks, but once he’d agreed he’d found he’d had no choice. Martinez was the translator of the group, but Michael had to admit, he wasn’t bad at planning things. He’d orchestrated everything, from finding out Billy’s favorite breakfast to picking the Scot up and using a circuitous route to the office.

If this mission had taught them anything, it was that team roles were apparently meant to be defied.

And that it was important to remember that rope could be a weapon of force when employed properly.

“Nah,” Michael said. “We haven’t been in the field since Ecuador. Your skills are rusty. A little balloon blowing is good for you.”

Casey glowered. “About that,” he interjected, tying off a streamer with disdain, “when are we getting in the field again?”

Michael sobered. It’d been a thought he’d had more than once. They’d been home a few weeks now, and Michael had ducked most missions floated their way out of respect for Billy. But now the Scot had been cleared for work, and Michael wasn’t sure how that would play out in the field.

Billy could still whisper and he’d started to regain a bit more of his voice. He still wasn’t able to vocalize words, but that didn’t necessarily make him a desk jockey.

But it also didn’t mean Michael could have him front and center in the field like he normally could. He kept hoping that the next therapy session would be the one to help Billy start forming words -- but at a certain point, he’d have to bite the proverbial bullet and take his team back into the field.

With or without Billy and his voice.

“Let’s not rush it, okay?” Michael said.

“I haven’t,” Casey replied shortly. 

“It’s his first day back, Malick,” Michael hissed. “Give it a rest.”

Casey opened his mouth to protest when the door opened. Rick was leading, Billy behind, head down. He was halfway through the door when Rick broke down and yelled, “Surprise!”

Startled, Billy looked up. His face went blank for a moment as he took it in -- streamers and balloons and snacks.

Billy gaped. “I have to admit, this one has me speechless,” he whispered. “Literally.”

Rick was grinning, and Michael moved forward, slapping Billy on the shoulder. “Good to have you back,” he said.

Billy worked his jaw and smiled back. “Good to be back,” he whispered, and if he sounded unconvinced, Michael told himself it was just the lack of inflection from the whispering.

Because they were going to be okay. They’d been forced to hang on with all they had in Ecuador, but now that they were back, they were going to be okay. Billy wasn’t hanging from a rope; Casey wasn’t cutting a hole in Billy’s neck. Rick wasn’t staring wide-eyed and young.

They were home. They were healthy. A little quieter, maybe, but that would change.

To Michael, there was simply no other option.


	3. Chapter 3

The ODS had always been a resilient bunch. Bad things happened on missions, and they returned back to Langley much the same as they were before they left. There was a simple understanding of how things worked in the spy game. The hardest had been after losing Carson, of course. The grief and guilt had affected them each differently, and it had taken actual months before things started to feel right again.

But even during that time, when Casey was angry and Michael was overzealous and Billy drank himself to sleep every night, they had functioned as an operational team. They’d gone on missions, traced intel. They’d done their job, no matter what had happened.

So it was no surprise to Billy that life went on as normal after their inauspicious return from Ecuador. Granted, the welcome back party had been a nice and truly unexpected touch, but before they’d even finished half the snacks Casey had been clicking at his computer, Michael had opened a file, and even young Rick -- wee, inexperienced lad that he was -- had hesitatingly gravitated back to his desk, tapping his pen on a stack of paperwork so forlornly that Billy finally found a project for himself to do just to let Rick get back to work without feeling guilty.

There was nothing else to do, after all. They were home; Ecuador was behind them. Billy’s scars were fading, even if the damage was still visible. He had taken to buttoning the last button and cinching his tie just slightly higher. True, tying a piece of fabric around his neck still made him squirm, but a little personal anxiety was the lesser of two evils.

So life fell back into its rhythm. They came to work; they worked cases. They attended briefings, caused havoc in the breakroom. Rick flirted with Adele; Michael bothered Fay. Casey worked out, and Billy made the rounds to get the skinny on other departments. Life as normal.

Except when it was different.

Because when Billy tried to interject at lunch, to start a tangential story better than the original, sometimes no one heard him and the raucous talking just kept on without him. Though he often tuned out meetings when they were superfluous and irrelevant, he found that being bored and purposefully silent lost its appeal when it was forced upon him. Besides, even the duller briefings used to benefit from Billy’s pointed comic relief. But now, all he could do was doodle in the corner of his paper while the droning persisted.

At home, it wasn’t much better. He couldn’t let the maid know when to come in and when not to, and the poor woman had walked in on him more than once before he had the chance to get to the door to tell her otherwise. He reckoned it was a bit of a boon that his ability to text had increased, but he found that his mobile plan with ample minutes was no longer needed. He could play guitar, but when he tried to break out singing on the choruses the gravelly squeaks made him opt for the telly instead.

His mates tried to keep things as normal as possible, to their credit. During team meetings, they still asked for his opinion, getting extra quiet when he tried to whisper his answers. They included him in all things, even when he was nothing more than an extra warm body. The problem was, as far as Billy could figure, was that now that his voice didn’t carry any actual weight it seemed like his words didn’t either. 

Maybe _he_ didn’t either.

No one said that, of course, and no one would. And it wasn’t like any of them had given up -- especially Billy. He still showed up, day after day, offering devilish smiles and impish winks. He flirted; he played pranks. His nonverbal comedic skills were growing, and he’d mastered a wider range of facial expressions to perfectly tailor his reactions. He could now pick a fight with Casey with one look alone. He could get Rick to second guess himself by tweaking his eyebrow.

And his stealth skills vastly improved -- he was able to sneak up on people, eavesdrop more effectively. He could disappear into the background with frightening ease. He’d never realized just how much he chattered before.

There was still hope, too. Billy still attended therapy, and the latest scans of his throat were, according to his doctor, promising. He did his exercises -- and then some. He started to make noises, strange and uncontrolled as they were, and he tried to tell himself every day that he could beat this. That he _could_ get his voice back.

Then things could _really_ get back to normal. With banter and rapid-fire dialogue. Singing and reading poetry and charming people. The silence wouldn’t last. Michael and Rick had cut him down from the rafters in Ecuador, but he would do it himself this time. He could overcome this. It was possible. It had to be. 

Until then, Billy still woke up at night, feeling the noose tightening around his neck, his feet leaving the floor, and the pain exploding. He struggled and fought, and when he opened his eyes, his mouth still fell open to scream--

But no one heard him. This time, no one rescued him.

Because he hadn’t made a sound.

As the dream faded Billy was left alone, silent and sweating in the dark.

-o-

Michael hadn’t exactly put it off, but he also hadn’t actively sought it out. But they were CIA operatives: sooner or later they would go on another mission, no matter what had happened before.

To his credit, he was always picky about his missions. Sometimes he waited stretches that drove his team crazy, looking for just the right mission with just the right variables. He wasn’t afraid of danger but he was particular. He also knew his team’s assets. They were best geared for a certain kind of high risk mission, and Michael was careful to pick those that played to their unique strengths.

This time, he was just picky in a different way. The skill set had changed. One tiny variable, and the whole dynamic had shifted. None of them talked about it, mostly because there wasn’t much talking going on. With Billy’s voice out of commission, anyway...

Which was why this was a perfect mission.

Important: stopping a shipment of Uranium set to be hijacked from its rightful buyers to a third party with intentions against the US.

High risk: said third party was armed, dangerous, and generally without remorse when it came to indiscriminately killing people, even people they worked with.

Cover: security contractors. The group had started to hire three-men security teams of western backgrounds to help them interact with western buyers without tipping them off that they were about to be robbed blind. Casey was an ideal choice for a security contractor, and Michael was no slouch either. They’d have to help Martinez roughen up a bit, but the kid could pull it off.

Backup: With three men in the field, they needed one man to stay back on point. Since this was a dangerous, deep cover situation, they’d only be able to use one-way mics in their watches. This meant that Billy could stay back in the van, be safe and comfortable, perform an important job and not stress about the quality of his voice.

Hell, the whole thing was even _sanctioned._ All things considered, Michael had planned the perfect mission.

But now he just had to tell his team.

In this, Michael wasn’t one for procrastination. As soon as they were all present he handed out the files and sat on his desk. “So, we’ve got a live one.”

Casey regarded the file cautiously, flipping through it with a general disdain. It wasn’t that the older operative didn’t want a mission -- he was probably more anxious about this than the rest, Michael knew -- but Casey wasn’t exactly a fan of monotonous mission reports. Plus, he generally didn’t like to show emotion. The more anxious he was, the more dour he appeared, and if the cross look on his face was any indication, Casey was about ready to burst.

Rick devoured his file, sitting up and flipping through the pages with a surreal intensity. The kid was still a little green from time to time, but he had the makings of one of the best operatives Michael had seen -- ever. He was smart and quick and brave and passionate. Which was why Michael continued to haze him when he could. Not just because the kid deserved it, but to keep him sharp.

Plus, some days were slow. Seeing Rick scramble was always sort of fun.

Billy sat up as well, interest sparking in his eyes. Not just the faked version that Michael had gotten used to seeing since they’d been back from Ecuador, but the real thing. Michael could respect that; after being compromised, even if it wasn’t your own fault, there was a sense of dread and anxiety. About if you were good enough, about if you still had it. About if it could happen again.

All you could do was get back on the proverbial horse, and no matter what lingering uncertainties and angst Billy had, the idea of a mission was clearly going to do him good.

That was all the good news about this.

“How did you manage to get us on the inside with the company they contract with?” Rick asked.

“Wasn’t easy, but we paid off one of the local branches,” Michael said.

Casey raised his eyebrows skeptically. “And we’re trusting them not to double cross us?” he asked. “Security contractors aren’t exactly the most trustworthy people on the planet.”

“No,” Michael agreed. “Which is why we didn’t pay them in money.”

Casey looked vaguely intrigued.

Michael shrugged. “Seems like the guy who runs the local branch is looking for a career change. We’ve got him set up for a new identity and total relocation if we pull this off.”

“Nice,” Rick said. “And we have a solid extraction plan?”

“Well, technically we shouldn’t interfere with the actual shipment,” Michael said. “It is a legal buyer.”

“Yeah, in the Middle East,” Casey pointed out. “Legalities don’t mean a lot there.”

“Which is why we’re planning on working with the bad guys to break up the meet and in the chaos, take the Uranium ourselves,” Michael explained.

“So extraction?” Rick prompted.

“We’ll be on our own until we get back to town,” Michael said. “We’ll have a private vehicle we can use and then we’ll meet up with the local CIA annex, hand off the Uranium, switch out our passports, and be on our way home.”

It was simple, mostly. And it was good. Everything was covered, except one last thing...

Billy cleared his throat, and Michael braced himself as he looked at the Scot to watch him whisper. “I see the roles for Casey, Rick, and you, but I’m failing to see where I come in.”

Michael kept himself composed -- he’d been preparing for this part of the briefing even more than the rest -- but it was still hard. Watching the anticipation on Billy’s face, hinging just slightly on fear.

Michael took a breath. “You’ll be back in the city with the van for transfer,” he said. “We’ll want to ditch the security truck as soon as we can.”

“Right,” Billy whispered. “But what will I be doing while you three are risking your lives for your country?”

Michael’s stomach churned, but he refused to squirm in front of his team. “You’ll be monitoring our progress.”

“You can’t wear a traditional wire,” Billy pointed out.

“We’ll have one way communication,” Michael replied.

It took a moment for that to sink in. Billy’s face went blank. “So I’ll be able to hear you?”

“Yes,” Michael said with a nod. “But we won’t be able to hear you.”

At that, Billy scoffed. “That’s not a big deal, though,” he said. “Given that I can’t talk anyhow.”

“Well, they do have a history of a three-man crew,” Rick pointed out, clearly trying to be helpful.

“So offer them a fourth for free!” Billy said, his indignation evident on his face, making up for the lack of inflection in his whisper.

“Right,” Casey said. “And give them a reason to suspect us from the start.”

“These guys have a pretty scary history,” Michael agreed.

“Which is why you need the backup in person,” Billy insisted.

“And so if all four of us are compromised?” Michael said, shaking his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

Billy looked positively vexed. “But what am I supposed to do in the bloody van all by myself with a one-way feed?”

Michael didn’t miss a beat. “Make sure everything’s okay.”

Billy was expectant. “And if it’s not?”

They were obvious questions, and Michael was providing the obvious answers, because none of them wanted to say the things that they were all thinking -- that they all knew. Because they knew why Billy was going to be in the van; they knew.

Still, Michael couldn’t say it. “Call for help,” he said instead. “We’ve got support in the area. Higgins won’t like it, but he’ll pull the trigger if we need it.”

At this, Billy blinked. “Right,” he said. “So I’m basically a highly trained panic button.”

“It’s sort of important--” Rick started.

Billy glared at him. “It’s superfluous.”

“You’d be superfluous with us, too,” Casey pointed out. “Three men are needed. Not four.”

“And so why am I suddenly relegated to the background?” Billy asked.

Michael sighed. He couldn’t avoid it. “Billy,” he said, shaking his head. “You can’t be in the field.”

Billy flinched, even though he surely had suspected the reason from the start. “Oh?” he asked. “Because I’m superfluous, too?”

The words were a whisper, but they still carried weight. The meaning seemed to echo, reverberating through each of them until there was no way to deny it any longer. 

Billy couldn’t be in the field without his voice. Not on this mission, anyway. It was too dangerous; it was too risky. An operative needed full control of his faculties, and with Billy’s voice the way it was...

Playing a part would be too much. Not just for Billy -- because Michael knew the Scot would give everything he had and probably pull it off -- but for the rest of them. For Michael. 

Michael had planned the mission to Ecuador. He’d had them stay behind. Billy had been compromised for his failings and was now damaged in the aftermath. This was Michael’s fault. Billy had lost too much because of Michael; Michael wasn’t about to subject him to further loss until he was fully recovered.

Until he could open his mouth and tell Michael in no uncertain terms, until he could badger Michael with his words, annoying Michael with his poems, and frustrate Michael with his songs.

He was doing this for Billy. That didn’t make it easy, though.

Steeling himself, Michael held Billy’s gaze. “We’re not saying that,” he said. “We need you in the van. You’re going to be the only link we have to the outside world. We _need_ you.”

The tension drained from Billy’s face, his shoulders drooping. He smiled ruefully. “And I may not be enough, it seems.”

The words tore at Michael’s heart, and he shook his head. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “We’ll all be fine. We just need to stick to the plan, understood?”

The room settled into an awkward silence, Rick shifting uncomfortable while Casey watched with vague apprehension. Billy slumped back further, putting the file down and nodding.

Michael waited, but Billy didn’t look up again. He made no further attempts to speak.

Swallowing, Michael pressed his lips together. “Okay,” he said, his own voice faltering just slightly. “So read up on this because we’re going over it with Higgins at midday.” He paused, watching his team, eyes lingering on Billy. “Any other questions?”

Somehow, Michael wasn’t surprised when silence was his only reply.

-o-

The breakroom was quiet.

Billy reckoned that was fitting. It was, after all, 9:45 in the morning, well after the morning coffee rush and just before the mid-morning snackers hit up the vending machines in desperation. Quirky and bureaucratic as the CIA was at times, most employees always had something to do, what with rooting out threats to American interests abroad and such. In this, Billy took some comfort most of the time. Even deported and decommissioned as he was, he could count on America’s turbulent international relations to ensure that his skill would alway be in high demand.

Rather, that his skills had been in high demand. He no longer had quite so many of them, he reflected, shifting in his seat. Which was another reason the breakroom was quiet. When another employee entered, Billy could smile cheerily or offer a friendly wave, but he could do little to break the silence before the person nodded, did their business, and promptly left.

Which did beg the question, perhaps, why was Billy sitting there at all. His coffee was only half-drunk and he’d eaten part of a leftover doughnut, but really, there was no good reason to stay. But 9:30-10:15 were part of his morning rounds, a little routine he’d developed to pass the time and keep up good interoffice relations. He found that flirting up the tech staff and making small talk with the acquisitions department generally helped facilitate future missions when favors were in order.

Michael tacitly sanctioned such apparent frivolities because he often found people to be too suspicious to bother with. Rick would never be able to steer the conversations effectively without getting emotionally involved, and Casey -- well, Casey would be too prone to hitting someone the minute they started talking about their personal life. Billy’s conversational prowess had made him a natural.

Until, of course, he couldn’t speak. 

Sure, he could whisper, but people were too busy asking if he was okay and how his recovery was going to get much chance to direct the conversation to other, more pertinent topics. Which was why Billy was sitting there, alone in the quiet breakroom staring at his coffee. Because he couldn’t make small talk.

His mates would understand -- which was entirely the problem. They’d be completely accommodating, tell Billy it was okay and work out something else for him to do. Like organizing the bloody paper clips. Granted, Billy usually _liked_ that task, but only when he was able to do it in defiance of other orders. When they let him do it like this...

It felt like pity.

Billy was tired of pity. He wanted to be an _actual_ member of the team, not just some leftover that everyone feels too guilty about to let go. Even the quiet was better than the pity. So he’d sit in the breakroom and bide his time, before going back with a glowing report and all smiles.

He’d always earned his spot in the ODS. It was no easy thing, being rejected from one country and finding safe harbor in another. Harder still was winning over the likes of Casey Malick and Michael Dorset. He had done that of his own accord, his merit and his skill. He couldn’t lose it.

He wouldn’t.

That said, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure the ruse.

Or the silence.

When the door opened, it was only his highly trained self control that kept him from jerking his head up anxiously. The key to any persona was persistence. He had to be nonchalant; no one would believe him to be unchanged by his injury if he acted, well, changed.

“Operative Collins!” a friendly voice boomed.

Billy suppressed the urge to sigh. Instead, he looked up with a tired smile. “Ah, Operative Blanke,” he whispered, greeting the newcomer with as much pleasantry as he could muster. The good news was that with Blanke, not much finesse was required. “How are you this fine day?”

Blanke strolled over. “Oh, good, good,” he said with too much enthusiasm. Then, he shrugged, making a face. “A little sore, I guess, what with this weather. My knees just don’t take to the damp like they used to. Makes me feel a little off my game. But I guess you know how that can be.”

It took some effort not to wince. “I reckon we’ve all been infirmed from time to time,” he said by way of agreement.

“Oh, yes,” Blanke said. “Comes in our line of work, it seems.” He paused, seemed to actually look at Billy. “How is your recovery coming?”

Billy cleared his throat, keeping himself from reaching up to tease the neck of his shirt higher. “Steady progress,” he said. “Not quite ready to debut my vocal cords just yet, though. I want to be pitch perfect lest everyone suffer from the occasional off notes.”

It was true. Mostly. He was making progress, though the uncertain sounds that emitted from his throat were more than occasional, and more than a little off.

“Wonderful!” Blanke explained. Then he glanced around before pulling out the chair across from Billy and sitting down. “You know, I am very impressed with your tenacity. Most operatives wouldn’t be trying to bounce back nearly so quickly.”

Billy smiled. “Aye, well I reckon I wouldn’t know what else to do with myself.”

“Oh, I understand that,” Blanke said. “I felt the same way when I was sidelined.”

Billy gave the other man a quizzical look. In his years at the Agency, Operative Blanke had been a constant and generally benign presence. While he had certain uses from time to time, Billy had not seen him in situations that warranted more peril than a paper cut or strained ankle. “I didn’t realized you’d been injured in the line of duty,” he said diplomatically.

“Oh, it was before your time,” Blanke said, waving a hand. “Well before your time, really. About fifteen years ago, right when I was at the height of my game.”

It was an odd idea, really. Blanke, in his prime. Going about actual missions.

Blanke smiled fondly. “I’d just gotten myself placed in Beirut, working out of the field office there.”

Billy’s eyebrows went up in surprise. Beirut was no easy assignment; it was reserved for the best of the best -- the most brave, the most capable.

Blanke looked at him and grinned. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “A man like me -- a place like that. But I was quite the operative in my day. Hand picked for the post by the White House.”

“Well,” Billy said, “that sounds like quite an exciting proposition.”

“Oh, it was!” Blanke enthused. “We did some of the most invigorating spy work you could imagine. Routing Hezbollah. Protecting American interests.” Blanke sighed happily. “Those were good days.”

For once, Billy didn’t doubt that. “So what happened?”

Blanke’s smile fell and he shrugged. “The usual,” he said. “Got caught up in a blast from a suicide bomber. I wasn’t the target, so it was really just dumb luck. Nearly ripped my gut clear out. Almost died from sepsis before they could even get me to a hospital back home.”

The seriousness of it took Billy off guard. “I’m sorry,” he said, offering as much genuine inflection as his strained voice could afford.

“Yeah,” Blanke said, sounding somewhat regretful. “It wasn’t pretty. Or easy. But I was determined. After I fought the first infection -- and then the subsequent infection and the close call with pneumonia -- I rallied. Put everything I had into recovery. Sit ups, stretches, biking -- that’s when I discovered the power of walking. Low impact, high results. Literally turned my life around.”

Billy was duly impressed.

Then Blanke tilted his head. “Took me the better part of a year before I was field worthy again,” he said. “But I was ready. Raring to go.”

The sheer enthusiasm made Billy smile. “So when you speak of tenacity, you truly know what of which you speak.”

Blanke beamed. “Truly, truly,” he said. “Of course, by the time I was cleared for duty my post had been reassigned. All my assets had new handlers. I got bounced from department to department for awhile, looking for a new place to call home, but then it just got too long...” He trailed off, shrugging.

Suddenly the implication wasn’t amusing. It was vaguely horrifying.

Blanke swatted the air again. “Oh, it’s not so bad,” he said. “I like to think of it as not being tied down. True, my skills often go to waste and I’m continually demeaned and overlooked and degraded, but still!”

Still.

Billy swallowed, then let out a slow, restrained breath. The idea of how quickly it could change, how one day he could be a capable, viable operative and the next he could be wandering the halls, begging for scraps...

It was almost too much.

Blanke leaned forward again, patting his arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry, though,” he said. “Even if everyone else forgets, I’ll never forget your true worth. If not as an operative, then as a person.”

Billy locked his jaw and forced a smile. In the past, he might have joked. Might have enthusiastically gone along with the man. It was ridiculous after all: bonding with Blanke. More than that, finding common ground in the man. Finding a kindred spirit.

Billy almost couldn’t bear to think it. That someone who was capable and strong could end up with nothing. That in a few short years, Billy could be wandering the halls, trying to find some place where he belonged because he sure as hell didn’t belong with the ODS.

Except that wasn’t the case. The ODS hadn’t given up on him. It hadn’t been so long. Billy was making progress...

Blanke looked down at his watch, pulling back abruptly. “Oh, look at the time!” he exclaimed. He looked up at Billy, eyes bright. “Got to make another pass around the tech department. I found a friend who agreed to give me a little brush up on the latest technologies. I’m thinking about getting a Smart Phone. Got to stay up on the latest devices if I’m going to stay relevant!”

Billy nodded feebly, not sure what to say. For once, it seemed convenient to blame his damaged throat for the uncomfortable lapse.

Blanke stood up, pressing a finger to his nose. “Keep working strong, operative!”

Billy returned his exuberance with a halfhearted smile. Keep working strong. Except Billy wasn’t working at all. His team hadn’t replaced him, but they had relegated him to the background. Sure, they had reasons. Sure, things could change...

But what if it wasn’t fast enough? What if the ODS needed to move on? What if all of Billy’s work was for nothing? What if he got his voice back when everyone had finally stopped listening?

He couldn’t lose his place on the team, but part of him was beginning to wonder, though, if he already had.

-o-

Things went faster.

At one point, Michael might have thought this was a good thing. After all, the ODS could be somewhat inefficient sometimes. Generally, Michael understood this as part of their process, but there were times when he wanted to shake his operatives and remind them that not everything had to be quite so difficult. His team was so good at causing havoc that they even caused it for him just by being his team.

But when he pined for a little more silence, a little less wasting time, this wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind.

Everything was going perfectly on this mission. They were on time and on schedule, not a single hitch. They made record time getting situated; they breezed through surveillance. Getting inroads with their marks was uncharacteristically easy. Everything was streamlined and efficient.

Because Billy couldn’t talk. He could whisper, still, but he’d stopped doing other than when it was absolutely necessary. If Billy couldn’t talk, then he couldn’t coach Martinez. He couldn’t rib Casey. He couldn’t throw stones at Michael’s more foolhardy plans. He just did his part, and shut up about it.

Michael would have thought that would hinder their operational capabilities more, but they were so well honed together, that most of the time the words were superfluous, even if Michael was loathe to use that term. They knew what each team member was doing; they knew what was needed. Simply put, the conversation and back and forth that usually filled their missions was just fluff.

Rick should have appreciated the focus. Casey should have appreciated the lack of distractions. Michael should have appreciated that all the variables were perfectly controlled within his grasp.

Which was what put Michael on edge more than anything else. 

“You sure we’re good?” Michael asked, checking over the stowed packs for tomorrow.

“I’m sure,” Rick said, resolute.

Michael narrowed his eyes. “Can’t be too safe,” he said.

“That’s what you said the last time,” Rick protested.

“And the five times before that,” Casey snarked from his place on the floor where he was stretching.

Michael sighed, and drew his lips together in a scowl. “If you’d rather walk in unprepared--”

Rick rolled his eyes. “We’re not unprepared,” Rick said. “And usually I think we’re always unprepared. But we got this.”

Michael shifted on his feet slightly, trying to contain his nerves. He glanced from Rick to Casey, who was ignoring him. Billy was watching them wordlessly from the corner of the room.

Chest tight, Michael bucked himself up. He wasn’t prone to superstition, but he trusted his gut. He didn’t let his instincts dictate everything, but he knew enough to listen to them for a general direction. Right now, he needed to slow down.

He needed to talk it out.

“Let’s go over it one more time,” he said.

Rick groaned, flopping a little melodramatically on the bed.

“One more time,” Michael reiterated, both as a threat and as a promise.

“Fine,” Rick said. “We go in with the terrorists tomorrow, just like we’ve set up. We’ve already got our working orders, so we just have to follow them and set up the perimeter as per our orders.”

“Right,” Michael said. “We need to be tense and on our game for the cover to stick.”

“So they won’t kill us on the spot, you mean,” Casey interjected unhelpfully from the floor.

Michael ignored him. “Then what?”

“We wait for the buyers,” Rick continued. “When they show up, we pull the fire system in the place and douse everything with water. Since we are part of the main security, it shouldn’t be hard to get the Uranium and make a run for it.”

“Oh, and to clarify,” Casey said, pausing in his stretching. “We should run fast. Really fast. Because they’re going to probably shoot at us with machine guns until we’re out of range.”

Michael nodded. “So what are we missing?”

“Nothing,” Rick said. “The covers are solid; we know the best weaknesses and refuges in the building. I mean, for a high stakes mission, this one is pretty ready made with our cover.”

“Low hanging fruit,” Casey mused. “I’m not opposed to picking it.”

Michael worked his jaw. “If we get made--”

“We follow the same extraction plan but on an accelerated schedule,” Rick supplied.

“If we don’t have that option?” Michael prompted.

“Well, isn’t that why Billy’s in the van?” Rick asked.

Michael glanced toward the Scot. Billy smiled lazily, lifting one hand in a wave.

Chewing his lip, Michael nodded. The team dynamic was off, but the operational procedures were still perfectly aligned.

It would be okay.

Michael still needed to hear it.

“So we’re all good?” he asked. His eyes locked on Rick. “You?”

Rick inclined his head. “More than good,” he said. “I’m great.”

Michael glanced to Casey. “Casey?”

Casey paused, sighing. “This one is a no-brainer, Michael,” he said. “I’m slightly offended you even have to ask.”

Finally, Michael turned his gaze to the corner. “Billy?” he asked.

Billy smiled, raising both his thumbs up in silent approval.

They’d planned; they’d double checked; they’d confirmed.

Michael would finish this mission. Then, somehow, he’d figure out how to fix his team.

-o-

Spywork wasn’t always about high-speed chases and near death experiences. Billy knew that. He’d lived it. For every time he’d nearly got himself killed, he’d spent at least twice as much time doing mundane paperwork and sitting through mind-numbing briefings.

And really, given how poorly his last mission had gone, he wasn’t opposed to a little of the routine and run-of-the-mill. Being strung up and having his throat crushed was really enough excitement for one year. Contrary to what some believed, Billy did not willingly seek out peril. He would face it if needed, but he did prefer to orchestrate situations where nearly dying was not necessary.

He also knew that, realistically, someone had to be sitting in this van. He would have gladly lectured Martinez about how important his supporting role would be just months earlier, and if it were Casey stuck in the van he would have teased the older operative mercilessly.

Because sometimes they all drew the short straw. Sometimes they all had to take their turn in the backseat. It wasn’t so much being left out of the action -- it was not being able to be there if something went wrong. It never felt good, leaving his mates vulnerable while he stayed back in relatively safety.

It felt even worse now. Because he hadn’t drawn the short straw. He’d been left back as a strategic necessity, because without his voice he was much less useful in the field.

He was, in fact, mostly useless.

Useless and bored.

Listening to people prepping for a sale was about as interesting as watching paint dry. There were checklists and confirmations, and it might all be more impressive if he could see something, but the meager communications were only verbal and only one way.

So he was mute _and_ blind. As if he needed his total lack of purpose solidified in any more certain terms.

It was all going so well, too. This was, most certainly, a good thing. But Billy had to admit he felt a twinge of jealousy when Michael joked around with the terrorists. He felt downright envious when Rick managed to cajole the bad guys into keeping the schedule as planned.

Those were _his_ jobs. Such things were _his_ area of expertise.

And there hadn’t even been a hiccup. No sign of hesitation or discord. By the time Billy _did_ get his voice back, maybe Blanke was right -- it would be entirely too late.

Billy wasn’t sure what was more disconcerting: that it might be too late or that Blanke might be right.

The thought of it made him sad. It made him angry. Angry that this had happened to him, that one mission went wrong and that it wasn’t his fault but he still had to bear the consequences. That he still had scars on his neck and a voice that wouldn’t work and that his team didn’t _need_ him.

They would never say it -- they wouldn’t even want to admit it -- but it was true. If Billy couldn’t get his voice back, they might never kick him out -- they were too dogged and loyal for such a turn -- but Billy would whittle away his years, wholly dependent on them. 

His fate was literally hanging by a thread, and the ODS was there making sure it didn’t strangle him for good.

The problem was, they would have to cut him loose sooner if not later. And if they wouldn’t, Billy would have to.

Of course, such things were dangerous. Billy wasn’t sure if he could free himself or if he’d simply hang himself worse.

All in all, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that everything he’d worked for had been taken from him -- that everything he had wasn’t near as much as he’d thought it’d been in the first place.

Sitting in that van, biding the hours, he was bored. And he was upset. And he was angry.

And he couldn’t tell a bloody soul because when he opened his mouth, he still couldn’t form a single word.

So he’d listen. He’d wait. He’d feel that noose tightening around his neck and hope against hope that it wasn’t too late to be saved.

-o-

In a lot of ways, Michael thought Billy would have been the logical choice to stay back even if his voice had been functioning at full capacity. This mission required them to be stoic and gruff. There was lots of glaring and no-nonsense posturing. Billy would have been bored out of his mind, keeping his mouth shut.

That was suddenly ironic to Michael. Billy being bored without his ability to speak. Billy had been more than bored since Ecuador. He’d been frustrated and isolated and withdrawn and probably angry. His team wasn’t good with emotions. Rick wore his on his sleeve; Casey tended to punch things. Billy deflected.

If he couldn’t deflect, Michael wasn’t sure what he did. Well, in the short term he did. He got frustrated and isolated and withdrawn and probably angry. But where they would lead…

They’d find out.

Later.

After this mission.

Michael didn’t handle emotions well, either. It made him think. A lot. When he wasn’t supposed to.

Like on missions with Uranium and terrorists.  
 _  
Finish the damn mission, Dorset,_ he scolded himself, drawing himself together and scowling for good measure as he reassessed the situation on the ground.

Things were going well – that much was still true. So far, they’d arrived at the meet point without a hitch and had set up the perimeter. Now they were just waiting for the buyers. These terrorists weren’t ones for chatter, either, which was why Michael was so sure that Billy would have been bored.

Not that it mattered since Michael was so distracted. He wondered if he’d been this distracted in Ecuador, if this was how things had gone awry in the first place. Because it was easy to take things for granted – things like airtight mission plans and impeccable improvisational capabilities. It was easy to trust that he could plan and Casey could hurt people and Rick could translate…

And Billy could charm people.

Until one thing went wrong, and maybe none of it was true. Without Billy, they were less somehow.

But Billy was just in the van, Michael reminded himself, watching as the garage door opened, right on time.

He straightened, glancing toward Rick, who shifted uncertainly on his feet, fingers tensing on his gun. Across the way, Casey’s eyes narrowed just a little, and Michael felt his own hackles start to rise in anticipation.

This was it.

It had all built to this.

He eased himself back just a touch, watching as Rick did the same. The buyers were inside now, the garage still open, two of the terrorists flanking the vehicle, guns up as the buyers unloaded.

Michael glanced from the buyers over to the leader, where he stood with the suitcase.

He glanced at Rick, then Casey.

He took a breath. The first move would be the hardest – a surprise attack to disarm the closest guards while Rick made a mad dash to the Uranium. It was going to get loud and possibly bloody, but the havoc would work in their favor. They had to get the case and get out, Rick running first with Michael and Casey laying down cover fire as they hightailed it out right behind him.

Michael readied himself. Another breath, a small nod—

And then every gun in the room turned on him.

Michael blinked, surprised. He’d been careful; he’d been certain.

The leader walked up to him, smirking. “I’m afraid our buyers have another purchase in mind today,” he said.

Michael felt his stomach roil, cold terror spreading through his veins. He didn’t know when they’d been compromised; he didn’t know why. It could have been a set up from the beginning; there could have been a tell he missed.

Or it could be suspicion.

Michael could possibly salvage this.

He had to hold his cover. He had to keep talking, convince them they were wrong.

He had to charm them.

But then Michael realized, he had a translator, a fighter, and a planner…

And not a charmer in sight.

-o-

Even as a talker, Billy had been keenly observant. At least, he’d never thought himself to be obtuse or oblivious when he wasn’t intending on appearing that way. But without his voice, he’d found himself even more aware of things than before, picking up on the smallest differences and understanding the shifts in atmosphere before they became readily available to everyone else.

In the office, this didn’t mean much. He knew when Rick was about to say something ridiculous; he knew when Michael was worried about a plan. And he could predict, such a tick faster, when Casey was going to check out of a conversation entirely.

He found he could hear people coming a few paces earlier in the halls; he’d learned to guess which items was being proffered from the vending machine without even looking with an impressive 94 percent accuracy. Billy had learned to leverage the silence, his only form of entertainment and self defense.

So when he heard the shift on the radio frequency, he knew better than to ignore it. It was subtle at first; the foreign dialogue faded just slightly, noting an increased distance. The dialect got clearer, more pronounced. 

Billy inclined his head, curious. They could just be preparing for the meet, made nervous by meeting the buyers.

But then he realized something else. No one had mentioned the buyers. Even with Billy’s rudimentary grasp of the local tongue, he still knew enough to know that the conversation had not mentioned the buyers -- or the Uranium. 

Which was odd.

Very odd.

Billy’s brow furrowed. His teammates were acting totally normal, going about their business as planned. Then he heard the garage door open--

There was no chatter, though. No movement of guns. No nerves, no anticipation.

The engine shut off, and Billy’s heart fluttered inexplicably.

Then, his heart sank as the grainy voice came through the reception: _“I’m afraid our buyers have another purchase in mind today.”_

And everything made sense. This was a sale, but not for Uranium -- at least not exclusively. It was the sale of western operatives.

Only not quite. Billy had read the file on their source in the security company; all he’d been able to do was read -- he was legitimate. He hadn’t double crossed them.

This wasn’t a sale of an operative; this was the simple sale of a westerner. A clean and simple abduction, putting the likely wealthy families of security contractors on the hook and trying to raid the deep pocket of rich security companies. 

As for the previous requests for western security personnel, if the families and companies had paid the ransom, all would have been made well. The companies wouldn’t want to tarnish their reputation with a breach of such magnitude, so no official report might be made.

This was good in that the mission was salvageable. Michael had to keep talking, and if the last while had proved anything, it was that Billy’s team was fully capable of that.

Billy shifted uncertainly in his seat, glancing over at the emergency button. The team was knee deep in a mess, but calling in reinforcements now was a vote of no-confidence. Things were bad, but maybe not impossible just yet.

Chewing his lip, Billy listened.  
 _  
“Hey, man, you hired us to do a job,”_ Michael said, his voice just slightly strained over the radio. _“That’s why we’re here.”  
_ _  
“Yes, yes,”_ the man said, with an air of bemusement. _“And you are doing a fine job. All we need is for you to stay still and allow us to conduct our negotiations.”_  
 _  
“Negotiations, my ass,”_ Casey muttered.  
 _  
“You never wanted extra security at all, did you?”_ Rick asked.  
 _  
“We wanted security persons,”_ the man said. _“Do not worry. When my associates here are through, you will be quite free to leave, and we will thank you profusely for your services. Although, I am afraid that the terms of payment may be irrevocably altered.”_  
  
Billy sucked in a breath and held it. The next response was critical, the difference between salvaging the mission and certain death.

If it were Billy he’d be disarming, drawing things out as long as he could, putting them off until an opening arrived -- until backup...

Billy’s stomach went cold, and he looked at the emergency button again. If this went wrong, though, backup would be too late. More than that, it would be too noisy.

Jaw working, Billy listened anxiously.

“Well,” Michael said, slowly, clear and steady. “Do what you have to do, then.”

And Michael wasn’t talking to the bad guys -- no, that message was for Billy.

He looked at the emergency beacon.

He thought about his team.

And he did what he had to do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks to all those who have read and reviewed :)

Michael was good under pressure -- the entire ODS was good under pressure. They had to be, in their line of work, and though Michael was no thespian he could pull off a cover with the best of them. He hadn’t survived this many years in the game with a piss poor poker face.

Still, after about fifteen minutes of having their photos taken and their personal effects stripped from their person, it was apparently time to move things along. And when the men they’d been helping secure the perimeter took them by their arms, hauling them toward the secure and impenetrable back office, Michael found himself getting nervous. Understandably so. The so-called smooth sailing mission had just hit stormy seas.

Scratch that, Michael thought as the guard jabbed a machine gun roughly into his back before forcing him to his knees; it hit a damn hurricane.

Keeping his face composed, Michael offered a terse smile up, even as Rick crashed to his knees next to Michael with a grunt. It was all Michael could do to keep his guilt from overwhelming him. He’d missed this. He was the planner of the group, and this operational oversight was his. He hadn’t done his job.

As the guard brought Casey over, the older operative stiffened abruptly and turned a deadly eye on his guard. “Shove me, and I will kill you,” he said sharply. “And I don’t even care if I end up bullet riddled for my trouble, so I would think twice.”

The guard’s face wavered, his gun still up even as he hesitated.

There was a long, perilous moment.

Then the guard shoved Casey.

It wasn’t the first shove, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Their captors had not been gentle, and their condescending airs were more than a little grating, even for Michael. Casey had endured the injustice of being moved like chattel with a white-faced grimace, and Michael knew that if he didn’t do something soon, Casey wouldn’t keep himself in check much longer.

He needed to stall.

He needed to say something stupid, something witty -- _something._ Billy would quip, crack a joke, say something snide. Just enough to bring their focus away from what was really going on.

But Michael wasn’t quite as quick with his words. He was just a little too slow -- and the fact was, his words would never be enough.

Still, as Casey launched himself back, Michael yelled, “No!”

That split second, everything stopped for Michael. The entire mission, which had been hurtling forward, came to a screeching halt, and Michael realized he was on the tipping point. Success or disaster; everything was about to be decided one way or another. Not on his terms, anymore. Michael had lost control.

It was almost unforgivable, for a team leader to lose control. It had only happened a few times in Michael’s life. In North Africa. In Ecuador.

There was no way to stop it now -- things had reached the cusp, and Michael could only do damage control. They were going to make a break sooner or later, but Michael had hoped to delay it until backup had arrived.

But that could be hours from now, if Billy had called for emergency backup. He’d given Billy an implicit order, but the fact was he wasn’t sure how the Scottish operative would react anymore. Everything was an unknown. Michael didn’t know his team; they didn’t know each other. All the reactions were just slightly off, and now Michael was realizing why this was bad.

Because Billy might not take the chance and come after them himself. Rick might be a bit too gun shy. Michael might miss the obvious; Casey might fly off the handle when every other sign told them to bide their time.

Casey was the best fighter, and he was also the most impulsive. He took risks because he didn’t think they were actual risks to him. He could be reckless and scary -- especially without the team dynamic the way it had been. They were slower that way, but they were also better. Rick made them think about the heroics; Casey made them remember not to get soft. Michael remembered the details, and Billy...

Billy knew how to keep them grounded. Billy tempered them -- especially Casey. Billy’s joviality did more than keep Casey from dwelling darkly on the finer details of life. Billy’s chatter kept him just distracted enough to think twice about doing something stupid.

Like lashing back when they were unarmed, outgunned, and possibly without backup.

But Billy wasn’t here.

The second passed, and Michael came back to himself again, eschewing the thoughts as best he could and rallying what little he had to make this right again. If Casey had chosen to fight, Michael had no choice but to follow -- and no choice but to hope Rick fell in line.

As it was, it was out of Michael’s hands. Casey had disarmed his attacker, flying into a rage. Michael saw his own guard moving to assist and lashed out, tripping the man hard so his chin smacked into the floor. Casey was moving on, taking on another series of guards, and Michael was on his feet, taking on the next man who approached him. Michael couldn’t pause to look, but the sound of Rick fighting at his flank was more reassuring than not. The kid hadn’t cried out, and the sound of flesh on flesh continued, relentless from all sides.

But this was too fast, too frenetic. There were too many guards, too many risks, and not enough backup.

They were good...but Michael wasn’t sure they were good enough anymore. This was a fight they shouldn’t have picked, maybe a mission they shouldn’t have gone on, because they were incomplete.

Michael laid out another man -- they were less than they had been.

He lashed out again, moving toward the leader only to realize he was gone.

Cursing, Michael turned quickly, taking out another man with a punch and a few good kicks. The leader was the key. He had to compromise the leader, break the chain of command. That was the way to promote dysfunction.

As if Michael’s own team wasn’t living proof.

He fought as he turned, charging into a man who was coming at him with his gun raised. He ploughed him over, then looked up and finally got his eyes back on the leader.

Right as he turned his gun on Rick.

The younger operative was currently preoccupied, grappling with a guard, while the leader approached.

Michael opened his mouth to yell, to say something, to _do_ something--

But he hadn’t planned for this. Casey couldn’t fight his way out of it. Billy wasn’t here to talk them through it.

And the only thing Rick was translating was horror as he looked up to see the gun--

Right as it went off.

-o-

The drive was too far.

Granted, they hadn’t picked the location with easy extraction in mind. It had been a safe, half-way distance, far enough for the rest of the team to lose a tail without being so far as to be a risk. But the plan had been to call for emergency backup. To let the big boys do the heavy lifting, so to speak.

Billy didn’t have a voice, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a trained, highly skilled operative. He could help. He would.

But the bloody drive was _too long._

Fortunately, Billy was a good driver. In fact, he was the best driver of the lot, knowing how to finesse a car to go just fast enough without losing control (most of the time). He had innate direction, a strong sense of traffic patterns, and Michael generally preferred that driving tended to keep his chatter just slightly reduced for the added concentration of steering.

So Billy drove. Sneaking through the streets, he used alleyways and side streets, sneaking through any traffic he found and easily circumventing pedestrians until he made it to open country. Then he bore down, pushing the gas pedal all the way down and narrowing his focus to keep the van on a straight trajectory through the African backcountry. 

He glanced at the clock. It was taking too long. He couldn’t hear the feed from in the front, but he knew the situation could turn dire at the drop of a hat. Michael was counting on him.

His team was counting on him. Voice or no voice, this was Billy’s job.

Freshly determined, Billy did a mental recall of the area, recreating the highway system in his mind. The main road was a straight shot, but even in the mostly unpoliced countryside, his reckless flight would be impaired by other drivers.

He saw the road up ahead, and he couldn’t quite place it in his head -- there was a chance it went entirely the wrong direction to nowhere -- but his instincts screamed otherwise. It was a risk, a calculated chance--

And Billy took it. He trusted himself, just like his team trusted him. The tires squealed as they took the corner, kicking up dust and debris as he floored it down the deserted open stretch. He followed the road until it hit another cross road, this one winding due east, the exact direction of the compound.

Still, he needed something to peg him to the landscape -- a landmark from the map to tell him just how close he was.

Then there, in the distance -- a large facility, fenced off. Not the mark’s base. Military.

Billy’s mind worked. The mark had set up shop disturbing close to a military installation, either in a show of foolishness or bold proclamation of fearlessness. This meant the mark’s location was just a bit farther -- there would be another road in here...

Billy saw it coming up fast and turned sharply to make it. The van rocked precariously, and when he hit the straightaway again he started mentally tallying the distance. After three miles, he found a grove of trees, pulling off and parking the van.

In the back, he loitered, listening to the feed just for a moment. He’d traversed the 30 minute trip in about a third of that, and he could only hope it wasn’t too late. He could hear the conversation -- tense and strained -- and no significant change. There would be no expectation of a rescue this early. If at all.

Billy had surprise going for him.

Really, even without his voice, Billy had a lot going for him. He was able bodied and fully trained, and when he set out on foot the rest of the distance, he did so with a growing sense of certainty. Not fearless, of course -- that would be asking for trouble -- but just the secure knowledge that what he was doing was right.

The sun was hot as he ran quickly over the terrain. As he approached the building, he slowed. It looked much as he expected -- the surveillance photos had been detailed and accurate -- and it was decently fortified and sufficiently staffed.

It still had its weaknesses, and Billy took a long moment to evaluate them in person.

There were guards, obviously stationed at key checkpoints around the facility. Some were in plain view of each other, and all were heavily armed with machine guns and other sundry weaponry.

However, they weren’t exactly keenly observant. If Billy had to wager, these blokes were well trained in theory but had less experience with actual execution. If Billy could get close enough, he suspected that hand to hand would break in his favor.

The trick, however, was not to tip them off. He had to take them out one at a time. If there was any hint of commotion -- or heaven forbid, gunfire -- it could be quite bad for his teammates.

Under some circumstances, Billy could envision talking his way in. It would be tricky, to be sure, but he was quite adept at making people believe even in the most impossible things. If he’d had full control over his vocal cords, that might have been his initial approach. 

It would have been flawed, though.

No, this time, Billy needed stealth.

Fortunately, without his voice, Billy had honed his sense of stealth. He’d even managed to sneak up on Casey once in the breakroom, the ultimate coup. He had been underwhelmed with the feat, but here, in the field, he was starting to see its ample advantages.

Assessing the guards again from his secure location, he noted the sharp angle of the fence line along the eastern edge. The corner was turned, obscured just enough by sharply jutting out further than the rest. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was surely his best bet.

Running low to the ground, Billy skirted far around the building. If they were looking the guards might see him, but Billy didn’t intend on slowing down long enough for that to be an issue as he used the shrubbery to his advantage. As he crossed the main access road, he moved even faster, sneaking his way through the afternoon shadows as best he could. As he rounded toward the east side, there was less to hide behind. Pausing behind a rock, pressed low, he gave himself one last minute to consider his options.

Really, though, there was only one option. This was dangerous and uncertain, but his mates would do the same. They already had when they stormed Castillo’s compound and cut him down from the bloody rafters. If they’d hesitated then, Billy would have lost more than his voice.

Billy wasn’t going to hesitate now.

Pulling out, he broke into a soundless run, amazed that the guard couldn’t hear him while facing the other direction. In fact, his approach was so fast that the other man barely had time to turn before Billy leveled him with a single punch and he crumpled to the ground.

One down...

A lot more to go.

Billy kept moving around the exterior, systematically taking out the guards. It was easier than he would have expected. A single punch, well placed and perfectly executed. With the quiet on his side, his surprise never failed, and the string of downed guards brought him more than a little grim satisfaction. None of them had even fired a shot, much less had time to yell. He’d never much understood Casey’s pride in fighting prowess, but he thought maybe he was starting to.

That just left the main building. He was a little surprised he hadn’t been spotted by now, but it was entirely possible that the guard system was not well developed. If the inner building relied on the exterior guards, he may have more surprise on his side than he could have anticipated. As it was, he would have to approach carefully--

And fast.

He didn’t hesitate, breaking out into a jog. At the doorway, he paused, pressing his back against it. Without his voice, he’d been training his ears to listen. Not just to the expected things, to the little things. Not just the sound of voices -- foreign and American -- and not just stray words he recognized.

But the slight turn of a handle, the squeak of a hinge almost opening.

Billy tensed, readying himself.

As the guard came out, Billy decked him, reaching to disarm him when he realized his first oversight. Because one set of footsteps had obscured another -- right in the wake of the first.

Billy managed to duck the punch, and he plowed forward instead, sending them both sprawling to the ground. It was too much clatter, but there wasn’t much to be done for it as the guard’s gun skittered away. 

Billy rolled on top but the guard bucked, sending him flying. Billy hit the ground hard and got back up--

But not fast enough. The man behind him beat him to it, grabbing Billy from behind--

And wrapped his arm around Billy’s throat.

And squeezed.

The sudden shock was so overwhelming that at first Billy could only gape. It was eerily familiar, hauntingly reminiscent. He’d been here before, throat constricted, tongue thick, mouth open--

Needing to breathe.

The arm tightened and Billy’s eyes went horribly wide and his heart hammered in his chest. It was happening again -- the pressure cut painfully at his throat, aggravating the scars, reminding him of waking up in the hospital with a hole in his throat--

And oh, _God,_ he needed to breathe. Desperation pushed him to panic and he flailed his arms, bucking aimlessly.

He couldn’t die like this, he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he _couldn’t--_

No one was going to save him this time.

Which meant Billy was going to die...

Or he was going to save himself--

And save his mates as well. This was his rescue, and he’d be damned if some lucky guard with a hairy arm was going to end it for him.

Angry now, Billy snarled inarticulately, combating the dimming of his vision and harnessing his strength. He let himself relax just for a moment, and felt the arm jerk.

The need for air was pressing, but Billy just needed a little leverage. Face burning, he trusted his instincts and just let go.

His body went limp and his eyes closed, body going slack. Behind him, the man seemed surprised, his grip loosening just enough--

For Billy to push up. He rammed his head hard into the man’s chin, knocking him clean away. On his feet now, Billy turned, kicking the flailing attacker once in the head before he went limp.

Greedily, Billy sucked in air, one heaving breath at a time. It felt good. Really, it felt amazing. To breathe, to live, to be victorious. He wasn’t a victim. He’d lost his voice in Ecuador, but he hadn’t lost the things that mattered most. 

Then, before Billy could move, he heard a gunshot inside.

He froze.

Then he heard Michael yell.

And he could only hope that he hadn’t just lost something after all.

-o-

Stormy seas were one thing; hurricanes were another. This was the storm of the century.

Scratch that...this was...

Hell, this was so bad that Michael was out of metaphors. He was really out of everything. Out of willpower, out of ideas, out of control. Because they might have been holding their own in the fight, but theirs was a war where casualties were not acceptable.

Were _not acceptable._

And Rick...

Rick was on the ground, on his back, legs twisted beneath him and arms splayed wide, bright red blood slicking the front of his shirt from a bullet wound--

A bullet wound.

Michael’s jaw tensed.

He liked to plan. He lived to plot the details and shape the big picture to his preferences. That was his _job._

Though, it wasn’t like he’d exactly been doing great at that to begin with so far. Ever since Ecuador...

It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was somehow getting out of this. And if Michael couldn’t plan, he damn well wasn’t going to stand there stupidly while his teammates died for his screw up.

With a scream of inarticulate rage, he hurled himself forward. It wasn’t a graceful move, and it certainly wasn’t anything Casey would have approved of, but it had its advantages.

The leader turned as Michael lunged, bringing the gun to bear, but it was too late -- Michael had already bowled into him, using his momentum to take them both to the ground. The body beneath him hit harder, a meaty thud audible, and Michael rained his fists down, striking anything and everything until--

“Michael!” Casey’s voice cut through the din.

Michael looked up, almost surprised. Casey was over by Rick, hefting the younger operative up awkwardly and trying to retreat.

“Cover us!” Casey ordered.

Michael blinked, realizing the reason why. Casey would be mostly defenseless carrying Rick, and with so many men carrying guns still milling about, it was time to think exit -- or at the very least, cover.

Glancing back, he saw the leader, dazed and bloody on the front. It was a secondary concern now. Instead, Michael looked up, scanning the floor for what he needed--

The gun.

The handgun that had shot Rick wasn’t that far away. Getting off the other man, Michael scrambled on all fours over to the gun, scooping it up. As he brought it up, aiming it at the first man who approached him, he didn’t hesitate to shoot. His split knuckles protested, but he fired again until the man approaching fell.

There was fresh gunfire -- close. Michael winced, ducking down and turning sharply, taking out another man as he ran with a gun toward him. 

Heart pounding, he looked behind him, seeing Casey as he dragged Rick’s all-too-limp body behind a bank of large metal canisters. It was always a tossup finding good cover in these situations, but Michael could trust these. Mostly because they’d brought them for the job to store their weapons.

It wasn’t a sure exit, but it would do for now. Until what, Michael wasn’t sure, but he’d sort of given up on thinking ahead at this point.

Instead, he got to his feet, running half-blind through the room, too aware of the gunfire now being readily pointed in his direction. The concrete splintered behind him, and Michael skidded across the last of the distance, almost falling on top of Casey as he found himself behind their cover.

Casey hissed. “Careful!”

Sitting up gingerly, Michael grunted. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Casey pursed his lips. “Not for my sake,” he said, words thick and voice gravelly.

Michael’s stomach churned violently as he moved in more carefully now, watching over Casey’s shoulder as he pulled away the fabric of Rick’s ruined shirt.

The younger operative grunted, lifting his head, face pale with tears in his eyes. “How bad is it?” he asked, breathy and strained.

Casey’s jaw was tight, and Michael fought against the urge to punch a wall. The wound was high in the abdomen, but to the side -- and bloody. Michael’s anatomy was a little rusty, but if he had to guess, he’d wager it actually hadn’t hit anything vital.

“Nothing life threatening,” Michael said, the words sounding oddly flat. It was mostly true.

Casey turned his head a little. “Through and through,” he reported.

Rick strained to see. “It feels bad,” he said. “Worse than Bolivia.”

Gunfire pinged around them, and Michael poked his head out, firing off a shot before ducking back in. He shook his head. “Nah,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant while Casey fashioned a bandage, wrapping it tightly around Rick with some urgency. 

Rick winced, paling even further.

Michael forced a smile, trying to think of the right thing to say. Billy would know...

He took a sharp breath, and shrugged. “The bullet’s not even in there,” he said. “They’ll stitch you up, good as new.”

Casey tied it tight, glancing back at Michael bleakly.

Stitching him up would be easy.

Keeping the kid from bleeding out...

Would not be so easy.

Michael listened to the gunfire, and wondered if backup was on the way. He wished he knew; he wished he’d planned better. He wished he could say what was coming next.

The fact was, however, that he didn’t know much at all. Just that the mission was screwed, they were mostly unarmed, they had no sure exit, and Martinez was bleeding out.

Michael’s team was falling apart.

Worse, he was starting to worry that it could never be put back together.

-o-

Billy had been outside when he heard the shot, but he knew. By the strain of Michael’s voice, by the sudden break in the gunfire, by the newfound furor that was born in its wake.

Billy knew.

He would always know. It was a sixth sense of sort, though not supernatural in nature. It was inevitable for men who worked as closely as the ODS. No matter what had gone wrong between them, no matter what variables were amiss, they were still a team. Close knit and forever bound and they were in trouble.

And it was up to Billy.

His throat was tight, but it wasn’t the scars or even the lingering memory of the man’s hands (or that bloody ever-present noose in his mind). It was fear. Not for his life -- but for theirs.

Moving with new purpose, Billy leaned down, snagging the discarded gun and stepping over his assailant and moving toward the door. He paused, peeking in as best he could. He could hear the sounds of intermittent gunfire, punctuated by voices yelling in the local dialect.

Billy listened, translating the words he could recognize.

They were reorganizing, shifting position. This was mostly good news, Billy gathered. Because if they were regrouping, then the ODS was still at large -- which meant that there was still something to save.

It made Billy’s task more pressing.

In a split second, he planned. He saw the variables; he pulled them together. Stealth had been his greatest ally so far, but this time he needed to use the element of surprise and learn a lesson from the Human Weapon.

He had to fight.

Hard, brutal, relentless. The voices were close to him, which meant the guards were regrouping on the side closest to him. The ODS, then, would be presumably located toward the back of the facility. If Billy could take out the guards from this direction, he could count on his team to take them out from the other side. Outmanned and outgunned they may have been, but teamwork would always save the day.

Certainly, there were risks in the plan. Billy had no way of knowing for sure if his mates would follow through the way he expected them to, if they were even capable of it.

Except, he did. Because if he couldn’t know, he’d believe.

And now, he’d fight.

Bursting through, Billy didn’t hesitate, blasting the air with gunfire. There was yelling, and the men were scrambling, some falling, some trying to find cover of their own. He made it several feet inside before one of the guards fired back, clipping him in the shoulder--

A flesh wound. He could feel the skin torn up, a trickle of blood leaking down, but he didn’t pause to consider it. Instead, he fired back, taking out the man and several others before he dove behind a tipped over table. It was metal, at least, but as a bullet pinged off it, Billy knew it wouldn’t do much good for long.

Still, he lifted up enough to fire, getting a rough count of the remaining men. Much less than before -- but almost ten.

More gunfire dented the table and Billy huddled down, gritting his teeth together and breathing heavily through his nose. He’d got this far, but he had to admit he was in a bit of a bind now. He needed--

Backup.

Fresh gunfire start up, but further away -- and not at him.

Billy grinned. “Thanks, lads,” he whispered.

When the volley from across the room faded, he reared up, firing off several more rounds. One of the men yelled, and a bullet whizzed over his head.

Enough was enough. Billy had spent too much time with his feet just barely scraping the ground. Either he was going to die here--

Or he was going to get himself down.

Either way, it was time to move again.

Billy waited for the latest round of supporting fire to die away, but this time when he got up he charged again. He aimed for center mass, taking out as many as he could. The men -- clearly startled -- started to scatter. That wasn’t unexpected. They were trained; they were probably quite capable -- but they weren’t a team in the way the ODS was. When things got tough--

They fell apart.

That wasn’t going to happen to the ODS. Not as long as Billy was breathing.

Then, his gun clicked empty.

Billy made a face, growling as he came face to face with another man, whipping the gun hard through the air. The man fell without a sound, and Billy just barely had time to bring up his gun to knock away the weapon from his next attacker. The gunshot petered away from him, and Billy followed up with a kick so vicious that the man fell to the ground, curled into himself. Billy kicked again -- once, to the head -- and was rewarded when his attacker didn’t move.

In the melee, Billy wasn’t sure why he looked up. But this time, when he did he saw something he’d missed before. Something he probably would have missed every other mission. A dark figure, lurking in the shadows. Stealthy enough to be Casey; practiced enough to be Michael; ready enough to be Rick.

But none of them.

Because cover fire still echoed from their stronghold. And this man wasn’t moving away, he was moving _toward._

Gun in hand.

Billy’s stomach flipped. 

A man lunged at him, and he fumbled. They went to the ground together, and Billy found himself flat on his back before he managed to lever the other man clear. The both grappled, reaching for a gun, fingers reaching, grabbing--

Billy’s fingers locked and he fired--

But it wasn’t the victory he wanted. Heart in his throat, he struggled to his feet, seeing the figure close in, gun raised.

Billy would never get there in time. There was no way. 

Billy could listen and he could plan and he could fight--

But sometimes he needed to talk.

Desperation roiled in his gut, panic tingling throughout every synapse of his body. The words were there, tight in his throat, and he opened his mouth out of instinct and put every ounce of strength and energy he had left into yelling.

In the past, with his speech therapist, such tactics had had mostly negative results. The sounds were vague and animalistic, nothing coherent enough to matter.

But this time, the words formed not only from his vocal cords, but from the very depths of his soul.

“Flank!” Billy screamed, the words rubbing his throat raw, leaving it sore and on fire. The pitch was uneven, the sound breaking as he yelled, and it wasn’t his most articulate message but...

It worked.

From behind the stronghold, Casey was up in a flash, attacking the man before he had a chance to fire. A few hits, and it was over.

Billy let out a trembling breath.

It was finally over.

-o-

Some missions went wrong. Sometimes their cover didn’t hold; sometimes they got in over their heads. Sometimes every damn thing went wrong, and this mission was a pretty classic example of that. They’d been tricked and compromised, they’d gotten in a firefight they couldn’t win and Rick had been shot.

And then Billy had showed up.

Because sometimes missions went wrong, but it didn’t matter. Not when the ODS was still the ODS, not when they could count on each other.

Truth be told, Michael had thought they were screwed. Hunkered down behind the metal crates, he’d been preparing for some kind of suicidal last stand to give Casey a chance to get out with Martinez. But before he’d had to act, the friendly crossfire had started.

At first, Michael had been confused, but when he ducked up to lay down some returning cover fire of his own, he’d caught a glimpse of a tall, lanky form, moving deftly through the fray. Billy fancied himself more of a lover than a fighter, but the Scot had always been adept in combat--

But not like this.

He was scary good.

Almost Casey good.

With Billy’s newfound prowess and Michael’s aim and Casey’s determination and Rick’s staunch will -- Michael knew they could do this.

They _did_ do this.

Every last guard was down, and the last, sneaking up behind them--

Funny that it was Billy’s voice that saved them.

On his feet, Michael grinned. “Wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Billy grunted, taking a step and grimacing, moving more gingerly as he limped closer. There was blood trickling down the side of his face, his sleeve ripped and stained red at the shoulder. “Wasn’t sure--” he started, voice garbled but the words still distinguishable. He cleared his throat with obvious effort. “--you’d want me, but then I stopped feeling sorry for myself and got off my ass.”

The words cut in and out strangely, sometimes Billy’s inflection scraping a little or disappearing into a whisper all together. But Michael still knew what he was saying.

He’d always known.

They all just needed to remember how to listen.

“Well, we’re glad you did,” Michael said.

“Yeah, real glad,” Casey said with a grunt. “Do you think we want to move along the happy little reunion and deal with the fact that Martinez has already lost a few pints of blood?”

Michael’s humor faded, and Billy’s face went hard as he scaled the rest of the distance with a limping jog. By the time he rounded around the back of the crates, Michael was already on his knees again, kneeling next to Casey who had returned his attention in earnest to their youngest teammate.

Rick looked worse than before, his skin nearly translucent and slicked with sweat. He was trembling now, blinking a little lethargically as he looked up at them.

“How bad?” Billy asked.

Rick’s face lit up. “You’re talking!”

“Aye, laddie,” Billy said, still straining a bit with effort. “I’m afraid it’s not quite as melodic as you’re used to, but I reckon the last thing you need is something soothing to put you to sleep.”

Rick’s grin vanished, replaced by a grimace as Casey adjusted the bandage and tied it tighter.

“In and out, through the side,” Michael reported. “I don’t think it hit anything vital.”

“Yeah, but with the rate he’s losing blood...” Casey said.

Rick shook his head. “M fine,” he said, words slurring now. “Though do we have any morphine pops?” His eyes blinked closed. “I really liked those.”

“Hey,” Casey said gruffly, reaching down to shake the kid. “No candy unless you can stay awake.”

“And it’s not that far to go,” Michael said. He glanced toward Billy. “How long did this drive take you?”

“No more than fifteen minutes,” Billy reported.

Michael looked to Casey. “You think you can keep him alive that long?”

“You think Billy can drive that fast?” Casey returned.

“Do any of you think we should stop talking and start moving?” Billy asked.

Casey raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Billy wants to _stop_ talking?”

Rick panted weakly on the ground, eyes opening blearily. “But he just started again!” he protested lazily.

Michael inclined his head, looking back at Billy steadily. “Okay,” he said, no more hesitations, no more doubts. Just focus, certainty, trust. They weren’t impenetrable, but they were pretty damn close. “Let’s go.”

-o-

They worked together flawlessly. Casey hoisted Rick up, cradling him in his arms. It was awkward with their similar statures, but Casey’s core strength was not to be trifled with. Billy followed close by, hovering near just in case, while Michael led them back out the front. For his part, Rick did his part by hanging on doggedly, eyes barely open, face pale and pinched.

But no hesitation. No regret.

When Michael stopped at a car, Billy almost forgot to stop. Still, he managed to open the back door and climb inside, helping Casey pull Rick’s trembling form onto the backbench.

“Easy now, easy,” Billy coached, voice like gravel as he positioned Rick as carefully as he could. 

Rick flinched, wincing at each small movement, but he didn’t protest. Instead, he blinked several times, eyes wet and glassy as he stared at the roof. 

Casey climbed in after him, position himself on the ground, kneeling next to Rick, immediately checking the bandage and frowning as he applied fresh pressure of the still-leaking wound.

Moving back, Billy went to open the door but was surprised when the front door closed and Michael turned around from the driver’s seat.

“We good to go back there?” he asked.

“We’ll be better when we’ve left,” Casey said.

“Which is why I think I should be driving,” Billy said. “I know this route.”

“I have the map memorized,” Michael assured him, getting the stolen car into gear.

“But it’s my _job,_ ” Billy balked. 

Michael turned sharply, putting the car into driver, and glancing back. “You do drive,” he conceded. “But you’re the charmer, remember?”

“I’m not sure that’s really relevant here, Michael,” Billy protested.

The car lurched as it sped forward, toward the exit without slowing. “I think it’s entirely relevant,” Michael said, voice straining as he turned the wheel hard and the tires squealed. “You’re the talker. So _talk._ ”

The order was curt and to the point. It might have even been harsh. But suddenly Billy realized the weight. _So talk._ Because he could talk. Because he _could,_ and they needed that, and Billy was more than the talker, but that didn’t mean that such a skill would ever be easily replaced.

But this wasn’t just about Billy, though. It was about Rick.

The younger operative was lying on the sheet, legs crumpled awkwardly against the door. One of his hands was draped over the edge of the seat, fingers loose and uncurled, while the other gripped meagerly as his tattered shirt front. His coloring was wan in the inside of the car, eyes open but starting to dull. 

He was slipping away. They’d got their team back together, and Billy wasn’t going to let that fall apart. Not now. Not ever, if he had the choice. And if he didn’t...

Well, Billy wasn’t about to admit it.

Focused, he shifted back in the seat, pressing himself back and looking down so he was more clearly in Rick’s line of sight. The younger man blinked wearily, and Billy smiled.

“How you doing there, lad?” Billy asked, using one hand to brace himself against the door while the car swerved, the other gently on Rick’s shoulder, both to reassure him and hold him steady while Casey maintained pressure.

Rick exhaled heavily, the fine tremors racking his body with even more force now. “Little hard to...focus,” he said, voice lilting softly even as his eyes started to drift shut.

Casey’s face tightened, but Billy didn’t flinch. Instead, he squeezed Rick’s shoulder. “Well, then, you seem to forget that you are riding with the best storyteller the CIA has to offer.”

Casey grunted. “You mean the one guy who doesn’t know when to shut up,” he said. “The kid’s bad enough off as it is, do you really think he needs to hear you prattling?”

Billy scrunched his nose. “I think Casey here is just afraid that I might choose from our repertoire of missions together,” he said. He leaned forward a touch, winking. “There is a particularly colorful mission to Uganda that I know he would rather forget but it does make for a delightful tale.”

Rick’s brow furrowed just a little, his comprehension clearly slowed by the escalating blood loss despite Casey’s best efforts. “Uganda?”

“A hell hole,” Casey interjected.

“No arguments about that,” Billy said. “But it does make an apt backdrop for our little tale.”

Rick held his gaze, waiting -- holding on for Billy’s next words.

And Billy didn’t disappoint.

He told the story, complete with background and embellished details. He let his voice rise and fall, punctuating the key moments and using voices where appropriate to bring the tale to life. His voice wasn’t perfect -- it still cut out and sounded garbled from time to time -- but Billy talked through it, talked through the worst of Michael’s driving, Casey’s clenched jaw, Rick’s drooping eyes.

But when they got to the hospital, Rick was still awake. Michael tore out of the driver’s seat, and Casey’s hands were stained red, but Billy didn’t stop talking until Rick was under the care of the doctors, until there was just nothing left to say.

-o-

Rick had needed surgery to repair the damage to his side, but after transfusing the kid, the doctors were pretty optimistic. Michael tried to believe them -- and really, Rick did look better when they finally saw him in recovery -- but it was hard to shake the image of Martinez pale, limp, and bloody in the rearview mirror while Casey held on tight and Billy talked.

Those were the kind of things Michael never forgot, no matter how much time went by. He could still feel the heat of the flames in North Africa; he could still feel his rubbery legs giving out after running fifteen miles in Bolivia. 

He could still see Billy’s slack body, hanging from the end of a rope in Castillo’s compound.

These were the moments that made Michael question what he did, made him question his team altogether. Because maybe working together was too big of a risk; maybe Michael would be better served working alone.

But ultimately, these were the moments that made him realize what it was that made his job so important. Sometimes they succeeded; sometimes they failed; but they always gave everything they had to get each other out. If it was hard to pin down the ideals of greater good and justice, it was much easier to fight for the men he served with.

Much harder, too. Because the idea of losing them scared Michael, and he didn’t like to be scared. But it wasn’t really about an explosion in North Africa or a gunshot wound in Bolivia. It wasn’t even about a hanging in Ecuador or a through and through in Africa. 

It was about all the moments after. About making new plans, about fighting new fights, about telling new and better stories. But really, Michael’s job wasn’t to plan missions. His job was to play his team’s assets in the best way possible to achieve the greatest outcome. He had to know his team; he had to protect his team. He _needed_ his team.

And he still had them.

Maybe against all odds, but in the hospital, he had them more than ever before.

Casey was grumpy, slouching in chairs and muttering the choruses to songs under his breath. He always volunteered for coffee runs, and seemed to take perverse satisfaction on bringing them the most inedible items from the cafeteria possible. 

Rick rebounded pretty quickly after surgery, and within a few days he was starting to get the itch to leave. He was still running a small fever, but there seemed to be no signs of serious infection or other complication. The kid was proving himself to be a hero, even if Michael would never admit it.

Billy talked. Ever since yelling his warning during the rescue mission, the Scot hadn’t really shut up. His voice was still pretty bad -- hoarse and hard to understand, especially with his accent -- but that didn’t seem to stop him anymore. Billy seemed to be making up for the stretch of nonverbal interaction with a vengeance, regaling them with stories and lectures whenever he was awake.

He made jokes with Casey, ribbing the other operative for flying off the handle. He commiserated with Michael, talking about the unfortunate amount of paperwork that awaited them back home, and he passed the hours with Martinez, talking when the kid was still unconscious and not stopping when he was awake either.

He started talking and made like he might never stop again.

And after everything that had happened -- on this mission, in Ecuador, and everything in between -- Michael was pretty much okay with that.

-o-

This time, coming home was easy.

There was much to do with Rick’s injury. Adele fussed, and Higgins begrudgingly thanked them all for the exemplary service and sacrifice in the field. 

Beyond, it didn’t take long for Billy to get his feet back under him for real this time. He started chatting up people in the break room again; he rekindled dormant friendships and established new connections wherever he wandered. Even with winter approaching, he found himself unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, loosening his tie so he could breathe a little deeper. If anyone asked about the scars, Billy had plenty of stories to tell.

And still, he’d yet to say the thing that mattered most. He had never needed much reason to talk, but finding the opportune moment seemed to be impossible. So finally he took a deep breath, and spoke.

“I never said thank you,” he announced during a quiet stretch of work one afternoon.

Rick blinked up, a little surprised. Casey cast him a skeptical look, and Michael peered at him over the top of his glasses.

Billy took a deep breath, letting it out with a sigh. “For Ecuador,” he clarified. “I never thanked you all properly for all you did to save my life.”

Rick glanced uncertainly toward Michael; Casey did the same. Michael took off his glasses. “Well, to be fair, you weren’t saying much at all.”

Casey snorted. 

Billy blushed. “No, I don’t reckon I was.”

“And you don’t need to thank us,” Rick said. “We should have gotten there faster. If we hadn’t been so slow, you wouldn’t have...well, things would have been different.”

He wouldn’t have been hanged. He wouldn’t have had his voice crushed and a hole cut in his throat. He wouldn’t have spent weeks and months struggling to breathe, to find the words, always feeling the noose cinching tighter around his neck.

Billy waved a hand in the air. “Fate has us all dangling by strings,” he said. “And you didn’t just cut me down, you stayed with me throughout the rest.”

“You were rather...sullen,” Casey said darkly.

“It was a bit weird,” Michael conceded. “In your seven years on my team, I’ve never seen you so quiet.”

“I think sometimes I use so many words, I forget who I am at all,” Billy confessed, feeling suddenly awkward. “I think I was more than a bit afraid that I’d lost my usefulness.”

Rick laughed. “Says the man who single-handedly saved our butts back in Africa.”

“It was...impressive,” Casey said.

Billy found himself beaming. “Well, high praise indeed,” he said. He swallowed, clearing his throat after his voice wavered. “I do regret that my singing voice is no longer what it used to be, though.”

“I think it sounds good,” Rick said helpfully.

“It does give you a certain presence,” Casey said. Then he shrugged. “It can help you sound moderately less stupid.”

Michael grinned. “And it will help your Connery impression.”

At that, Billy smiled. He hadn’t considered that. Then again, he hadn’t considered a lot of things. That was why he needed his team, to be more than he was alone. To be better. To be whole. To be happy.

“Look, we know it was hard on you,” Michael said. 

“But you really do bring a lot more to the team than just your voice,” Rick said helpfully. “We just...didn’t know how to tell you.”

“You are the talker of the group, after all,” Michael said. 

“So let’s not forget this the next time you get hanged or otherwise suffer from a throat injury,” Casey said crossly, but there was a dark twinkle in his eyes.

Billy chuckled. “You have my word,” he pledged. “In fact, I am so remiss for my behavior over the last few months, that I resolve to make it up to you by telling you all how much I value you as often as I possibly can. These last two missions have reminded me just how precious every moment we have is. We can’t let these things get away from us. We have to express ourselves every day.”

“Well, I don’t know about _every_ day,” Rick said.

“Pshaw!” Billy said. “I have wasted too many days in silence already!”

“Really,” Michael said. “I wouldn’t call them _wasted._ ”

“But they were!” Billy said. “And now it is my duty -- nay, my privilege, to tell you my gratitude and affection as often and as creatively as possible.”

Casey’s face darkened and he hunched over to go back to work. “Don’t make me regret performing lifesaving field surgery on you.”

But Billy wasn’t going to stop now. He grinned. “In fact, I can start by reciting my latest poem. An ode to the many virtues of this team,” he said grandly, on his feet now because the chair couldn’t contain him. He gestured to Michael. “Our fearless leader, with uncompromising plans.” He eyed Casey. “The fighter, tried and true, staunch and stalwart.” Then he looked at Rick. “And the rookie. Young and able, virtuous and brave.” Then he straightened, clearing his throat. “And of course, myself. The humble mouthpiece of this hodgepodge group.”

Casey was steadfastly ignoring him, focused on his computer. Rick looked wide eyed and a little afraid. Michael just sat back and sighed, which was all the invitation Billy needed to talk.

This was how it was, how it was best. Maybe it wouldn’t always be this way, but they were four equal parts forming one brilliant whole. A working unit. Friends, possibly even brothers.

In the silence and in the noise.  
 _  
Always._

_end  
_


End file.
